The Green Match

The swipe of a green match. The hiss of its green flame. The same light illuminating the space before me.

“Finally.” I whispered. After going through almost half the box, I was worried I wouldn’t be able to strike any and I’d have to go back to the farm and get another box of matches.

The flicker of my hanging plants that were still attached to the smooth cave ceiling, brought out a strange urge in me to tear them down. My green thumb kept them alive usually, but it was painful looking at the rows of plants that will, most likely, not survive another day. The water had damaged almost everything in the storm, including the many sketches and paintings of my mediocre skills half torn and waterlogged, ripped from the walls of the cave.

I groaned and pushing off the cold and slimy cave wall, I walked into the damp darkness. Feeling around the space, I bumped into the small wooden table and matching wicker chairs my mother and I made last summer. The cave was slowly filling with escaped water that ran down the mountain and it was almost at my knees now. Instead of attempting to take buckets to pour the water into and throw down the mountain, in a feeble attempt to drain the cave, I sighed and held the small green light up to my eyes watching the fire slowly burn its way down the tiny stick.

My mother loved the matches that burned green instead of red, she said once that "the green light had always been more beautiful, more so than all the plants in the world."

I bent down deciding to sit in the cool liquid, I placed my right hand on my desk, and let the green light burn out in front of me before plopping into the pool.

Crying isn’t always something people expect to happen, and usually, crying is linked to sadness or utter loss and defeat. Something that can never be explained, or something people don’t want to talk about. Like a mother and her child sleeping peacefully in bed, then a storm collapsing the roof above them, crushing the mother, and killing her instantly.

Sobbing always took a lot out of me, and that’s why I never wanted to do it. That’s why I always waiting until something horrible would happen or when the pot would finally boil over after months, sometimes years of shoving all the emotions down beneath my throat. I added salt water to the pool around me, that was now rising to my chest, and as I lay my head back into the storm water, I open my eyes and peer into the darkness that the cave offers me.

The light emitting from outside the cave opening, is dim in comparison to what the green match could produce, which was almost nothing. But still, after my eyes adjusted and after I finally stopping crying, I paused. My breathing halted, as I maneuver my body by shifting weight to my legs, I stand up and my eyes squint on their own, looking up at the cave ceiling, I see a painting plastered to the top of the smooth cave surface.

“What the….”

The water around me is still swirling and rising as I bend down and weave my arms through the water. When I hit the table with my wrist, I find the nearest leg and grab it, dragging it towards my body. I place it next to me and put my right foot on the top, pushing the table down beneath the water. I make sure it’s stable enough before jumping fully onto the table and shifting my weight again to fix my wonky balance. After a second or two of not moving, I stand up and reach for the plastered paper, taking a corner in my hand and pulling down. The paper gives way at that corner, then the rest of the painting comes off with a little more effort.

I carefully roll it up, and with shaking hands I jump into the water. Holding the paper above my head, I trudge my way out of the cave, leaving behind my plants, hand woven chairs, hundreds of paintings, and sketches of all the memories my mother and I shared, behind me. Stepping out into the dim light, as the rain continues to pour down the mountain, I yank my hood above my head, and look down using the hood as a small shield against the rain.

Taking a deep breath, I unravel the painting. The sticky side that was attached to the cave ceiling left a residue on the sketch lines, but not enough that it was ruined. It’s a painting of me, when I was little, and written in the bottom there was a message for me.

Darling, you are more beautiful than the stuff and things I could ever find gorgeous, more radiant than the green flame, than all the plants in the world, than the drawings on the cave walls, than even myself. You are the light in my dark cave. I love you.

Rolling up the painting, and delicately putting it in my inner jacket pocket, I take out my green matches and strike one against the grit. With luck, or a curse, or whatever will the universe has for me, it lights. The green light illuminating just under my hood, as I look it it’s bizarre existence, this green flame, and I throw the match into the flooded cave. Turning around I start my hike down the mountain.

Water streaming down my face.