The day I turned 13, my guardian angel went out for a smoke. I like to imagine her as the dark-haired girl painted on the Amazing Grace pillow my mother has shamefully hidden under the work-desk in the garage. I named her Olivia. One cigarette turned into two, then 3, then 4, and then 20. She smoked the whole pack. I like to imagine she walked the 1.1 miles to the Speedway and bought a second. Then as she pushed the door ever so softly, some realization that is still beyond me made her take a step back. She walked back up to the cashier and bought the whole carton. Marlboro Golds. I think she likes the little yellow halo on the rim between filter and tobacco. It reminds her of something she misses. Something Holy. She walks out, 220 cigarettes in their individual soft packs, waiting to be unboxed and pressed between her thin white raspberry lips. All they want is a taste of something divine.
Olivia craves for something beyond me. Something that will heed her warnings and not just crawl back like a little dog at the front door whimpering that realized the world was bigger than it thought. Olivia craves God. Olivia presses her hand to the glass at those purple-pink sunsets because it’s the only time she gets a peak at the world she knew before me. Olivia misses her wings and can’t help but touch the open wounds on her back from where they were ripped off by the Lord she revered more than anything. Olivia knows it hurts to touch these ever-bleeding scabs, the merlot color dripping between her fingers. Olivia doesn’t mind it. She just keeps smoking.