I put on my dads coat
every time I leave to smoke
because between a long exhale
and his cologne
I remember in lucidity
one of the last times I saw him.

It was four in the morning
I was drunk on whiskey and alone
yet again,
not that he was surprised
or angered
by my antics.

As always
he was halfway
down the driveway
by the time
my phone rang.

"Do you have a cigarette on you?"

I was silent awhile
until I nodded,
shyly obliged,
and removed the last one from my pocket
which I gladly sacrificed.

He laughed and shook his head
his small fire illuminating the thick fog
around us
and his sunken eyes
exhausted from a day of work
that had drained us both.

My vision blurring
in and out of focus
fleeting street lights displayed
an abundance of nose marks
his favorite dog
left on the window.

I saw my fathers familiar hand
reach out
offering me a drag
which I silently accepted,
and I'm glad I did.

As the smoke cleared
I half-smiled to myself,
because if I could see us now
things would be different.

I unknowingly accepted
a share of the last gift
I would give.

I'm glad
I killed a piece of me
with him.

I'm glad
he still has it
wherever he is.