By Gene Murray
A cigarette tossed from a moving car bounces off the road like a solitary fireworks rocket. This brief event, the length of a spark, pulls me back fifty years. I am a small boy leaning on his leg. He is smoking, I am young, darkness can still be conquered. Only for that spark. Only for that spark. History is looking at a museum through a keyhole, and
memory is a discarded cigarette in the driveway of an essence.