STORIES: Holey Souls

I was a late bloomer and didn’t start smoking until I was twenty-five, but back then it was still a cool thing to do. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t blow smoke rings, but figured out a way to mimic them by exhaling a small puff of white smoke and poking at its center with my finger. It was a passable facsimile. So am I. The gauzy image of my soul has more than a single hole poked through however, and I think it is this fact of empty spaces within the whole, this weakness in the fabric of my being that led to Mrs. Reynold’s final death.