Artist Decoded By Yoshino

When I was a child, I was repulsed by my father’s smoking addiction. I can still smell the acrid scent of his clothes, laden with a residual stench that never quite went away. He used to carry an old handkerchief in his front shirt pocket. Even at a young age, I thought it was odd when he would blow his nose into it and then stuff it back. I found it even more disgusting when he would spit on it and then subsequently wipe my face with the same putrid handkerchief. I felt a sense of betrayal enter my body whenever he would do this. Maybe he thought of me as some sort of sick puppy, like how a dog licks the fur of it’s young as an act of compassion. Perhaps his dad did the same thing to him too? I guess I’ll never know. Around the age of six or seven, I asked my father if he would quit smoking. He replied, “I will quit when you turn nine.” Can you guess what happened when my ninth birthday came around? This cycle of broken promises continued for the next few years until he and my mother divorced when I was 14.