Our Nan Lets Us Smoke Inside By Tave Tibble but only when we drink wine and play cards on the kitchen table. I feel glamorous when I drop my ash into the pāua shell in the middle. Our

Our Nan Lets Us Smoke Inside
By Tave Tibble
but only when we drink wine and play cards on the kitchen table. I feel glamorous when I drop my ash into the pāua shell in the middle. Our nan wears black leather pumps and dries wishbones from chicken carcasses in an empty margarine container on top of the fridge. She’s not my real nan but I’ve always wished she was. I wished I was born with her blood in my veins, her dark Waikato DNA, high cheekbones and heavy wet eyes just like my sister. Our nan met her late husband in the late sixties. She was dressed in a little mod dress, her black hair flipped. He was a cowboy with mutton chops and tan-lined legs and short cream shorts, who rode off to work every morning with a commercial digger for a horse but? he’d pick us up in his station wagon on Sundays. Johnny Cash and his metronome voice making us fall asleep against the dusty windows so we would stop for a Filet-O-Fish and a strawberry milkshake for lunch and dinner. But he always picked my sister up more. At his funeral, us girls carried the mismatched flowers behind our brothers in black sunglasses. At the service, we all got up and sang I hope you are dancing in the sky but it was painful and flat and sounded like coughing. During the burial, nobody exhaled a word as my nan ashed out a half-sucked cigarette in the fresh sour soil. In the carpark, we all smoked back tears with another cigarette pacifier
like babies numbed on a nicotine nipple
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