Dear Tobacco,

Eric's funeral is tomorrow. I guess you'll be there - in spirit at least - but I wanted to tell you that I'd rather you not come.

I'd rather you not be so self-involved that you force those under your power to step outside for a smoke after the service. I hope that for some small instant that their desire to quit you is overwhelming, and that as a result of your impact on Eric and his life someone will have the strength to throw you out & out of their lives. I hope that the kids at the funeral will have a stark lesson as to why they shouldn't invite you into their lives. I hope that his family isn't mad at him, but more appropriatly mad at you. For when you and humans join in company bad things happen.

I'd rather not be having a funeral tomorrow. I'd rather have Eric back. I'd rather he had a chance to exchange every ciggarette for a minute with his loved ones. I'd rather be talking with him about his days on the farm, how he wanted to get his grandson some new rubber boots, or how he's fiercly proud of his kids and what wonderful adults they have all become.

Eric had huge hands. When I was a kid his hands were rough and calloused from years of work and sweat. I was kind of scared of them, but I grew to realize that their power was often unknown - a gentle jab terrified me as a 5 year old, but as I grew I realized his hands were really only the size of his heart. When I saw him this Easter they were still huge, but they had softened to the fine silkiness that you might expect from worn suede - a delicate membrane that while so strong is also so vulnerable. Even they used to have your stain. Hmph.

I guess you know that though.

So tomorrow we gather to cry and celebrate Eric. I don't think there will be a word spoken about you though - which is a good thing. Secretly everyone there loathes you, Tobacco, but out of respect to the man Eric was with and without you we will speak only of him.

You, are not welcome.