When I was little, I woke up before dawn every day (much as I do now). My mama would send me across the yard to my Grandaddy George, who would plop me right up on the gold-flecked white formica counter beside his stool and fix my cup of coffee (mostly milk and sugar), and hand me a cigarette (unlit). I think that he's my earliest memory of what love smells like...coffee, tobacco, woodsmoke, earth. It's funny, as young as I was when he died, I can still call up that smell.
There is nobody else in the world like him.
I miss him some mornings, especially when it's cold. Makes me want to go buy a pack and sit on the steps outside, just to remember.