1990, in the woods, near Branson

“There’s a pain,” he slowly says, as we light our cigarettes, “in the tip of my lip.”

Could be a zit. Or maybejustmaybe, could be cancer from the cigarettes we just lit.

“Hard livin’ lies right on the edge of hypochondria, don’t it?” He said, puffin’ and a grinnin’, tickled at his funny.

The night sky shone with stars. The leaves rustled in the wind. The temperature was perfect on that night when we were still obstinately, invincibly young. No one was dying, not like now.

We smoked and talked politics, religion, and music, I’m sure, as it was of what we usually spoke. All the while, he was unaware that the cells in his body had already, imperceptibly, begun shifting on their axis. Have mine?

Life has become more precious, and yet, I continue to do myself harm.