The longest walk back inside

Asphalt under your feet. Across the lot, the automatic doors slide open and shut for strangers. Somebody you love is inside, and the news is bad or not good yet. And here comes the pull to smoke, dressed up as mercy. Anyone would, it says. Nobody would blame you, and that's exactly why it picked today.

Look at what it's offering. It isn't help. It's distance. A few minutes of being a little less here, in the one hour when here is everything. The person inside doesn't need you calm. They need you awake, holding a hand, catching what the doctor says. The cigarette wants to steal the one thing you came to give.

You can't choose what happens inside that building. You can choose who walks back in. Start now. Go through those doors, find the restroom off the lobby, and run cold water over your hands and face. Then look in the mirror. That's the one they need in there.

Say it to God on the walk back, however it comes out. I can't carry this. Hold it with me. He doesn't need it tidy, and He's already inside that building. Today may still go hard, and you're allowed to feel every bit of it. You're walking back in clear, and the next hour can't take that from you.