Together, my husband Doug and I often walked our dog Brooklyn, the anxious pit bull. There was a guy who passed us in the opposite direction and smoked cigars. Doug and I each quietly in our own way have a memory that is triggered by the smell of cigar smoke. Out of character for me, I once stopped the cigar smoker. He looked at me as if I was going to reprimand him for smoking, but, instead, I said, ​“I just want you to know when you walk past us, we inhale. We each have a fond memory of a cigar smoking person in our lives.” 

The smoker we passed on our walk smiled when I told him, I think of my father who smoked and enjoyed puffing on a Ramon Allones, and Doug thinks of his grandfather, Dave Kay, relaxing with a cigar. I imagine the walker was not allowed to smoke in the house. He picked up our conversation, telling us about his father and grandfather, the cigar smokers in his family.

For me, the memory of the sweet smelling air comes with the imagined fantasy of my parents when they were in Cuba, prior to being allowed into the United States. And the smoke invokes the memory of my collection of cigar boxes where I stored my treasured pencils and crayons.