"Meet me by St. Francis." I've heard that phrase too many times to count throughout my youth. It started as the common place for all us kids to get a nickel's worth of candy from the gas station across the street from a statue of St. Francis. But eventually, as the years drifted by, candies turned into cigarettes, and St. Francis was our go-to guy to light up a smoke. It was a hotspot for the fellas and I, and only the fellas and I; that is until we got some lovely young ladies involved. Smitty was the first to bring his girl around and introduce her to the boys. It was awkward at first, every guy trying to act too cool for his own good, damn well makin' a fool out of Smitty. But the awkward first few minutes hardly ever last, and as the boys all loosened up a bit, laughter came through. Soon, our little circle of five young teenage boys evolved into a little circle of five young teenage boys with five young teenage girls. Then those pretty girls started bringin' some of their pretty girlfriends, some of which had boys with them, and before anyone even knew what happened, our little spot at St. Francis became the equivalent to the town plaza. This woulda bugged the shit out of me ordinarily, but seeing as how the boys and I were what you might consider founders of this here spot, there came a nice fluffy cushion of respect from all who attended. Hell, I could certainly live with that. Not to mention, jolly ol' St. Nick across the street would toss us a few free packs of cigs every now and again, for helpin' him bring in new customers.

Those were the years. But as is the case with all children 'cross America, we got older. My old man always taught me, "Age is defined by responsibility." Horseshit, I said in my head as I continued with the day's chores. But man, was he right. Much to my dismay, Momma became a widow when I was only nineteen. The scene continues to play in my head, from time to time. I was sittin' comfortably watching some Saturday morning cartoons when Momma picked up the phone. I didn't pay much attention, until I heard her body collapse against the wall, followed by her fallin' to her knees. I watched as she struggled to breathe. She only exhaled, didn't inhale, as if she was trying to get all of the hurt out of her body. But she didn't get the hurt out, and even though that was nearly sixteen years ago, I can see that it still lingers whenever I go and visit.

Pop never liked me goin' to St. Francis. In his eyes, I was avoiding responsibility. And looking back, I s'pose he was right; even though I'd be caught dead before admitting that to him back then. I haven't talked to any of the fellas in quite some time, and I'm sure all of 'em have moved on to bigger and better things by now. Only recently, I stopped by the gas station to pick up a pack of smokes. Jolly ol' St. Nick was replaced by some prick, all-too concerned with keepin' an orderly store than makin' friends. Reluctantly, I gave him my money, and as I stepped outside to light up, I looked across the street. Standin' as tall as ever, there was our man, St. Francis. But as I looked around, I was saddened to see that the town plaza was now vacant; not a single soul left. I walked across the street, set down my hat and briefcase, and propped myself up against the statue. I looked up at St. Francis, determined as ever to spread the good word. I just closed my eyes and enjoyed one of the greatest cigarettes there ever was.