She Rolled Their Lives Into Cigarettes
My grandmother
worked for the tobacco industry.
She didn’t wear a suit.
She didn’t sit in boardrooms.
She sat on a wooden stool,
rolling the poison
by hand.
She said it was honest work.
And maybe it was—
for hands that had known hunger,
for mouths that needed bread
more than breath.
She fed her family
with paper and leaves.
With fingers stained brown
before age had the chance.
She didn’t smoke.
She just rolled.
Day after day,
life after life.
She didn’t know
she was shaping the slow death
of strangers.
And maybe—
of us.
She never met the executives.
But she helped them build empires
one cigarette at a time.
And now?
Her children smoke.
Her grandchildren choke.
The money is gone.
But the legacy burns on.
She worked for the tobacco industry.
But it never worked for her.