'I took you to see Babe.'

I quit smoking and my mother doesn't want to go to the movies

There’s a fresh cup of coffee by my side, the first of today, that has been sitting for ten minutes. I’m reluctant to drink it. My phone rings, and the screen shines the word mam; it's a welcomed distraction.

“IF YOU’RE THINKING ABOUT SEEING THE NEW BOB MARLEY MOVIE, DON’T!’

Not one for practicing pleasantries or introductions, but more so a perfectionist in being heard, my mam motivates my first sip. She continues, like a fast-paced drummer, delivering symbol-crashing rants that outplay the shy sighs I involuntarily let out.

‘Did you not like it?’
‘AHH! I couldn’t understand it; everyone had an accent.’
‘Bob Marley was Jamaican.’

I’m watching my left hand limp without purpose, as it didn’t do so for six years. I quit smoking a month ago. I miss the great smokes: a cigarette after a meal, one in the sun on holiday, and one after sex. The greatest smoke, however, was the one in the morning that paired harmoniously with the first cup of coffee of the day. My lungs, empty from the eight hours of sleep. The strong tones of a roasted columbian lubricating the entrance way to them. The first inhale giving confidence I’ll make it through the day. My left hand far enough away to avert the smoke from my eyes; two fingers standing to attention, safeguarding. They haven’t been the same since. I spot them clinching pens between the index and middle fingers, often failing to stop them from going into my mouth. It’s a separation of the deepest sorrow. The ending, I fear, has two possibilities. The first being a death to both of my hands; the way a widower follows their recently departed lover; the cause of death: ‘a broken heart’. The second being an ugly divorce played out publicly: the right hand will get all the mugs, glasses, and cups it doesn’t need, and the left will be left with nothing it wants.

‘THAT’S THE LAST TIME I EVER GO TO THE CINEMAS!’
‘When did you last go? I’ve never known you to go to the cinemas.’
‘I TOOK you... must have been... twenty something years ago.’
‘You have never taken me to the cinemas.’
‘I took you to see Babe.’

The last sip of coffee is washed down with nothing. I place the cup back on the table, next to my phone and my Zippo. I haven’t found a place to keep it, and it’s too sentimental to throw away. A vintage solid silver handheld lighthouse that would navigate a flame to a cigarette in need during any rain or storm is wasting away as a decorative ornament on my dark brown wood table. An ending, unfitting.

‘I’ve got to go, son.’
‘Bye.’

I head out, lock the door behind me, walk to the bus stop, and hope a bus isn’t too far behind me. The recent phone call from my mam plays over in my mind: was Babe the reason for my mam’s twenty-year abstinence from cinemas, and did the pig have an accent? There are two others waiting at the bus stop: an elderly woman hunched over a walker and a middle-aged man with a face-defining moustache.

‘Got a light, mate?’ The man asks.
‘I don’t, sorry.’ I replied, knowing that had he asked me last week, I would have been able to say yes. Then again, if last week he asked me if I had seen Babe, I'd be wrong when I’d reply, 'I haven't, sorry.'

(Writers note: After writing this, I discovered I was born after Babe was released.)