Cigarette

I always told her that cigarettes would get the best of her.

We'd sit on the bench after school, talking about nothing, thinking about everything. She'd have her cigarette, I'd have a 7-Up. We'd strut around at dusk, better than everyone, queens of the streets in a way. She was a girl who could hold the weight of the world on her back, and still carry the groceries home. And she'd take a light before each walk. Mornings too, a frozen waffle and a hot cigarette.

She lit it tonight. She never used matches, always a red hot BIC lighter. She wouldn't have any other colour. Superstition of sorts I guess. Her superstition was right in a way, I guess. She died tonight. The lighter was blue. I don't know what I expected. I knew smoking would put her out someday. Not like this.

Are there cigarettes in heaven?