Cigarettes

I received a package with some of Lou's things from his mother, Jean, yesterday. It included a couple of his beautiful Tunisian tiles, which I expected, but also the black bag he always carried with some of its contents, including a little notebook, dental floss, and a pack of cigarettes, which Jean always referred to as Lou's "ciggies." (Was he carrying the bag when he died? How awful or, maybe, how wonderful that I have something that was literally on him during the last minutes of his life . . . .) I've hung the tiles. They're small, simple, and very beautiful. Catch and play with the light in a delightful way. Have left the cigarette pack on my coffee table. Feel's like he's out on the balcony grabbing a smoke . . . .