Graduation Gift, Part 8

    "GRADUATION GIFT" by Dar.
    Part 8: Epilogue

    Persons who wish to make comments about this story are requested to post
them on the smoking glamour bulletin board: alt.smokers.glamour

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    "Graduation Gift" EPILOGUE

    Those who enjoy smoking, enjoy watching women or men smoke, and have
enjoyed the story "Graduation Gift" are urged to NOT read this epilogue. The
story has a delightfully happy ending. This epilogue does not. You have been
warned.

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    It was three years later, and Irene knew she had to telephone Meg. It
would be the most difficult call of her life. She dialed Meg's number in
Manhattan. Meg picked up the phone on the seventh ring, and said, "Hello."

    "Meg, this is your mother, Irene. I'm afraid I have bad news. Last night
your Dad and I were smoking together and he had a heart attack."

    "Is he okay? What happened?" Meg asked.

    "The ambulance came right away, and we got him to the hospital. He seemed
to be stabilizing, but then he died this morning at 8:42." Irene started
crying.

    "Oh, Mom, I'm so sorry," said Meg.

    "But that's not all," continued Irene. "The doctor who was with Bill and
me at the end heard me coughing terribly, and he examined me just an hour
later. At noon I had some X-rays, which confirmed what the doctor had feared."

    Meg could barely speak. "Mom, no...no..."

    "Meg," said Irene, "I have lung cancer. It's in both lungs. It's terminal.
They have given me less than a month to live. Meg, please come home. The
funeral is in two days. Your Dad and I haven't seen you in over eight months
now. Now he'll never see you again. Please, can you come?"

    "It's hard for me to travel now, Mom," began Meg.

    Irene started to lose her composure. "What do you mean, hard?
Inconvenient, maybe...but hard? Meg, I don't understand..."

    "Mom, I have some bad news too," Meg said. "It is hard for me to travel
now. I've been in a wheel-chair for the last four months."

    "Wheel-chair?" gasped Irene. "What happened? Are you injured?"

    "No, not exactly," said Meg. "It's my breathing. My doctor said I have
advanced emphysema. He said he's never seen a case like this in someone my
age, just twenty-five. I can't walk. I just don't have enough air for it. I'm
confined to this wheelchair, and if I'm not sitting still I have to put one of
those contraptions on my face and breath from my oxygen tank."

    Meg heard a familiar flicking sound on the phone. "Mom, did you just light
a cigarette?" she asked.

    "Yes, I'm still smoking," said Irene. "What about you?"

    Meg paused a second. "Yes, me too, Mom. I love it."

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    End of the epilogue.

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