There is a matchbook in my pocket stemmed with words. I tear them out, one at a time, to strike against the grains of the day. My words become fire – warming, burning, casting light and shadow. Vintage matchbooks held twenty, equal to the number of smokes in a pack (in case you ever wondered). It is similar with the matchbook in my pocket, enough words to match the day’s moments. After that, quiet. Every morning the book is mercifully restored. And I am charged to take, strike, and speak to remember.