Love in the shape of a cigarette

Today, earlier.
I enter the hospital room. My aunty is there, just arrived from Germany. She can't talk, devastated by the sight of her mom.
My sister and I have been so lucky, yesterday our grand-mother was conscious. She moaned, but opened her eyes sometimes, pressed my hands so tight when I was crying.

I need you, I need you to press my hand whenever I cry, Bonne-maman. I need you.
How selfish.

I am smoking my cigarette as typing.

I remember when I was a teen. It was Christmas. I decided to smoke a cigarette, just like, erm, everybody around.
People, relatives, got shocked.

My grand-mother, so delicate, so much old-fashioned in her way, so much into traditions, etc... My grand-mother asked for a cigarette too.
Big shocked eyes from everyone.

She smoked that cigarette, that was so funny,  telling everyone a cigarette from time to time was really an enjoyable little thing.
She was supporting me. Not to smoke, but against the rest of the rigid family. : ))

I love her.

Today, in her hospital bed, connected to so many things, she does not react anymore. I wish I could connect myself to this weird stuff. Supporting her against death.

But.
You just don't go against death.

***

PS: 
Jenny, I got your message, I have no idea why it does not get published, but thank you so much! : )))