Cardinals can't smoke.

I was outside smoking

when a cardinal landed on the branch

just off to my right.

The tips of her wings, a nice crimson contrast

to the sea of green she floated upon.

Her beak, a pale bright yellow,

the end of a lit cigarette blinking

right at me. Her eyes, the color of puddles

on asphalt gleaming in the sunlight

until fading to grey.

I could not look away when she unfolded her wings

and left me alone in the backyard

with half a smoke to go.

Birds cannot be in one place for too long.

Flying must be truly addictive.

My mother says,

“Cardinals are a way for those who have died to see the ones they loved

and the ones they never had a chance to.”

My dad’s mom had gorgeous red hair.

I never met her

but she was pretty enough to be on the cover of magazines

before dying in a hospital bed

reaching for a pack of cigarettes on the bedside table

next to my dad who was watching, the whole time,

as she withered away.

I don’t know if she was proud of me

coughing between puffs

or just happy to know

she passed something on.

Either way,

that cardinal smiled at me before fading

off into the sun.