My recently deceased mother (87) was an anti-smoker, as was her mother before her. I never got to know my grandmother, but I was well versed on her opinion of smoking. Yup, you guessed it. I smoke with the passion of the persecuted. What's logic got to do with it? I have long responded to the anti-smoking rants with, "Enough about my death. Let's talk about yours for a while." Was it morbid obesety which killed my mother or old age? My mother and I were thoroughly estranged by the time of her death, as was she with her mother. I haven't asked. The detail doesn't seem too important to me.

In my personal herstory, I have taken active parts in anti-drug/alcohol campaigns. I have loads of gruesome death tales to tell in support of those campaigns. In recent years I have found myself disliking the memory of telling those morbid tales. The memories sit like guilt barbs in my consciousness. I am still looking for the words to speak that guilt. Works in progress. . .

In this morning's spin, I find myself wondering if the effort to avoid a particular cause of death implies that there is such a thing as an attractive way to die. Just wondering. . . Still processing. . . I am not at all certain what I am reaching for here.

Thoughts? Opines? Non-sequitars?