By Grant McLaughlin
The storm clouds roll through the sky. Bringing cool winds and grey skies to this otherwise blue, blank canvas. The farmer sits on the porch of the house his Daddy and his Daddy's Daddy lived in. He sits on the old wooden chair his Grandfather made from that Acorn tree in the front yard. He grabs the pack of lucky strikes on his table. The same brand he been smoking since he started stealing cigarettes out of his Mama's purse and smokin em out behind the Silo. Not much else to do on a corn farm in Kentucky. He lights his smoke, and he hears those sirens by the old High school start to blair. Rain comin. He sits there on that porch chair puffin away while a storm comes down. It poured and poured just like it did when he was young and his Daddy would set out buckets collecting rain water to feed his crops long after the rain stopped. He remembered his Daddy always made him sip from the bucket to taste for pollution. A kind of Family Tradition. He smoked down his tobacco until it burned his finger tips. He tossed it into the ashtray, the same one his Mama ashed into after dinner while she read the local paper at the kitchen table. The rain poured heavily on the already soaked ground. The Farmer grabs another cigarette, places it between his lips and casually lights it. He walks into the kitchen where his family ate sunday dinner. He gets a cup from the cabinet above the sink and he stares at his Parent's wedding photo he put up on the wall by that old fridge. The smell of the smoke lingered in the air, just like it would when Uncle Tommy came to visit when he was playin poker and smokin with Dad all night long. He walks back out onto the porch. He stares into the storm while rain water falls from his eyes, happy memories and good times. He takes a deep drag on his half smoked cigarette. Places the cup under the rain. The rain fills the cup and the farmer drinks heavily, tasting for his childhood.