If you flick the ash from the butt of a cigarette and there’s no wind, then the ash just falls. No wind to carry it, the ash just drops. Like Newton’s apple, crashing on your head, it’s like a revelation. It makes you think doesn’t it. Standing here in the muddy grass surrounded by tombstones, I think that breath and wind are kind of the same things. The wind is the world’s breath, I suppose. I flick my own cigarette a little more, just to make sure, and there’s no wind so the ash just hits the ground. The grass is only this muddy cos our procession has turned the ground up. I blow the end of my cigarette just so I can watch a couple of bits flake off and float away for a second, but once my breath stops they don’t get very far. They just fall. Into the ground, where we just put Uncle Nick. My own breath stings my throat a bit, it makes my eyes water. I flick the rest of the butt to the ground. The ground where we just put Uncle Nick. He didn’t want cremated. Too ironic. To let the ashes consume you in death as they did in life. I watch the glowing embers of the cigarette turn to grey dust. Like Uncle Nick, in the ground, who’ll be dust soon too.
(prompts: gravity, cigarette)