An idea flashes into my head. Before I have time to click the pen into a useful position or settle the notebook in my lap- a matter of less than one second- the thought sparks and evaporates. The end of a finished match.

After lighting long red taper candles at the dinner table, the match's small red bulb turned crumbly black. When I was young, I always tried to leave matchstick words on the table cloth- the white one with the stitched edgings, borrowed from some relative after she died. Only, I never knew what to write. The match, a tiny pencil, would hang above the white expanse waiting for the flare of creativity to fire it into motion. Finally, I would light on something worthwhile and begin the straight-edged letters of my name. Always my name. Before I ever finished a single letter, my mother would snap her fingers or freeze my hand with a silent frown, if company was present. I'm not sure I ever left more than a charcoal-colored smudge and a broken match beside my empty plate.