Vow

 Do you remember? We grew up together; there was nothing that could separate us. We sought each other out at every family gathering and stayed pinned to each other’s sides until your mother or mine tore us apart, saying it was time to go home. We weren’t quite sisters, but cousins was good enough. We still shared the same blood, had the same interests. I was closer to you than any of my other friends.

What happened? Don’t tell me you forgot. When we were seven years old they came and taught us about the dangers of smoking in school. They told us about lung cancer and emphysema and death. I think it scared you even more than it scared me. You made me promise to never smoke. We vowed to each other that we would never even touch a cigarette. And here you are, sixteen years old, going through a pack a day.

Can you tell me why? Did you want to be cool? Did you want everyone else to accept you? Did you tell yourself, it’s just one, one won’t hurt? Did you forget our oath? Can I ask you one more question?

Was it worth it? Was that one year basking in the glow of the popular girl worth betraying me? Was it worth lung disease? Was it worth death? I stayed true to the vow. I’ve never smoked a cigarette and I never intend to. And it’s satisfying to know that I didn’t betray the oath, our promise, or our friendship.