Sand and Ashes

Sheri Slomzenski
Nov 7 · 1 min read

I had been visiting my sister that summer. The desert didn’t offer much for a 14-year-old to do but walk Hoss the German Shepherd and smoke cigarettes in the dusty, beige courtyard. Ray and Dianna lived in the apartment adjacent my sister. The small ex-con wore a tidy, white tank shirt every day and lit his Kools with a lighter that was any color but black. Dianna wore moccasin boots and jeans daily, even in the 100° temps. She would sit outside and talk with me, and Ray would leap to light our cigarettes as if his honor depended on it. But no black lighters. No black anything. Seemed that was some weird sort of honor thing for him too.

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