Matchbox
— A Study in What Remains—
October had already entered the house before anyone mentioned the cold,
the windows breathing faintly at their corners while the kettle delayed
its answer, and every autumn afterwards I remembered that kitchen first,
before the illness, before the visitors, before my father's chair had learnt
to remain where no one pulled it out, for really it began years earlier,
with the empty matchboxes he never threw away, each of them keeping
one match inside, never two, never none, and when I asked why
he smiled as though I had mistaken the question, saying only
that an empty thing should never be completely empty, then reaching
for the newspaper, folding it once before reading because the crease
was already there, while outside the pear tree gave up its fruit
without giving up its leaves, and the postman always closed the gate
with his elbow although both hands were free, details that seemed
to belong more faithfully to the afternoons than to the people themselves,
until years later, clearing the drawer beneath the clock after my father
had gone, I found the little row of matchboxes pushed against the back,
their labels faded into one another, each still holding its single match,
the sulphur untouched, the wood unblackened, and without thinking
I struck one against the side of the oldest box,
expecting only the brief obedience of fire,
but the head broke away,
dropping soundlessly
among the others,
where every remaining match
was still waiting
for the one
that had never been meant
to burn.
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