He drew the long, dark strands through his fingers. They looked exactly like hers—the same soft feel, mystifying complexion, and a subtle glow that reflected every drop of moonlight. But that was long ago…last he felt hair like this. So many sunrises…each one taking bits and pieces of his hope. Seven hundred and thirty exactly, seven hundred and thirty days he was left with empty fingers. And now at the seven hundred and thirty-first his precious locks returned to him, packaged in a frail manila envelope, and wrapped in a silk cloth. Why? A question he couldn’t know, an answer he never would. All he knew was that this was not a sign…childish hopes like that were long gone from his mind. All he would ever have is a beautiful memory, and now a patch of hair. But this sad realization couldn’t fade his smile. A smile that illuminated bright—as he held the small match under his gift, breathing deep, enlivened in flames.
Eventually, we all run out of matches
July 19, 2012