A dusty ashtray

It's not that I miss you.

I miss my father

and the way that he would 

cringe when he took his first sip

off his cold can of refrigerated Pepsi.

Or the way he was so casually cool

with whatever pothole he would

find himself driving over.

He was a great smoker.

Not like the kind that struggled to imitate 

someone they imagined were cool.

No, he was a natural.  

It was clear to anyone who watched him

that it wasn't about addiction,

he actually enjoyed the whole process

the same way a small child

enjoys a sandbox or a frisbee.

Maybe someday I'll miss smoking,

or the sandbox,

I might even miss you.

Until then I'll miss my father,

and the hope that one day

I'd hear from you again.