Smoke in the Cold I watched a man smoke outside on the sidewalk this morning. He had a wool coat and a face like a riverbed—lined, quiet, used to waiting. The smoke curled up and disappeared, the way stories do when no one writes them down. We live in a time that hates smoke. We hate the smell, the stain, the suggestion of death. We speak in warnings: Dangerous. Addictive. A sign of poor choices. But there was a time when to smoke was not to sin. It was to mark the end of a meal, or a long silence. It was something to do with your hands while thinking. It was a fire you held close. ...