The last box opened, dug through, unpacked. The last knick-knack shelved or sorted or stuffed in some box where it will be forgotten until the next move. The last picture hung and the last frame straightened. The bed is made, waiting to be mussed again tonight.
A celebratory cigar, warm between my fingers lights the spreading twilight. Rain falls softly, but I remain sheltered underneath an overhang. Daring the rain enough to taste the crisp air mingled with smoke, but not enough to soak me through. Inhale, cloud. Inhale, cloud. The smoke stands out surprisingly against an equally grey sky. Its tendrils grasp and climb. It puffs, not out into the wind, but up into my eyes. A screen that blinds me temporarily in a rush of tobacco and dreams.
Its fresh. And its soothing. Its heady.
The smoke and the rain hold counsel and I think they’ve ruled in my favour.