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Menthol Cigarettes Mother smoked menthols, keeping a couple packs open so she could not tell the size of her habit. She'd pick her lip reading Cussler and King -- tv droning a background night; Mother never slept much. Menthol creeping ghosts drifting about her house. I'd lay awake wondering what made her unhappy, kept her smoking, reading in dull unnoticeable light. Mother, a mystery three or four notches better than her chocolate smeared paperbacks. Mother, a question mark print muumuu, bunned hair, secluded - midnight lonely. Summer night menthol smoke drifting out and in through window screens, hugging the side of her house, mingling with honeysuckle, hanging in my room ethereal, a harbinger of insomniac nights and my own smoky ghosts.
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