Grandma was a nurse, sometimes at the county hospital, sometimes a doctor's office. She insisted Grandpa use the third floor of the house for his studio, claiming the machine shed behind the garage would be drafty in the winter. Too many people died of pneumonia; she had seen it, had heard of the foolish things people did which lead them to illness.

           One night there was a fire. The house was on fire.

           Grandpa tried to run upstairs, to save his work and supplies. My mom's brother stopped him, told him not to go up. Grandma tugged at both of them—no time to argue like this, the girls were already outside.

           The five stood on the road watching their house burn. The family down the road called the fire department, offered to take them in for awhile until things settled out with insurance.

           My mom and her sister helped with chores around the farm. So did Grandpa, working as if he were born to be a farmer. Wouldn't take charity over the six months it took to rebuild; they had always been able to support themselves. The oils, he believed, the paint thinners and chemicals, made the fire unstoppable, cost them everything.

           My mom's brother failed school that year. He missed dinners, sometimes breakfast, came and went as he pleased. Gone for a day or weekend, he would come back surly, dropped off by someone's parents, or one time, the police. He was gone for an entire week, then two. Then school started. His friends didn't know where he was. The police did what they could, but Grandpa told them not to bother—he knew where home was if he wanted to come back to it.

           For months, my mom set a place at the table for her brother. She had seen him that night of the fire. He was outside the house. She saw the orange light in his hands. His face glowed, his eyes lit brighter than the flame.

           If he suddenly came back, she wanted him to know he was welcome. She didn't mind that it meant the table was more crowded, there were more dishes to wash. He was her brother.

           Grandma started saying even though everyone survived, they lost him in that fire.

***

           When I see my mom, we meet in public places or at her house. If I would just swap out my gas stove for electric, she says. I haven't told her about the two small fireplaces or the barbecue I keep on my patio. She might force me to move back in with her if she knew about the arc of candles over my headboard, the gauzy, fringed fabrics that decorate my windows.

           This I do not share with others—when I visit their homes I am pacing off each room, looking for familiar references. A couch is usually six feet long, seventy-two inches, one hundred eighty-three centimeters. I ask to use their bathroom not so I can snoop in the medicine cabinet, but to see if there is a window I could fit through in an emergency.

            The back door may be the nearest exit, but will it be unlocked? 

                                                                           
***

            
            It is the night before my birthday. My parents take me to dinner. As always, selecting a restaurant is tricky, my mother wanting to avoid anyplace with candles on the table. Options are few, and change each year. We visit three 'fire traps' before arriving at an acceptable establishment.

            
            Tomorrow, when I celebrate with my friends, I won't be able to explain the events which ended the evening early—my mother, needing a tissue, looked in my purse and found a book of matches. Her hyperventilating drew the attention of our waiter. Her ranting drove the manager to escort us from the restaurant.

            
            In the parking lot, my father did what he could to soothe her—hushed words, stroked hair. Finally won over, my mother, arms and shoulders still trembling, barely had voice enough to accuse "You're as bad as my brother."

            
            It is after midnight now, and I sit on my patio, alone but for the brick-sized present I give myself every year. Normally a ripper, with this wrapping I am careful, sliding a finger under the tape to lift it off the box, not letting scraps of paper flutter to the ground. Just enough illumination from inside my house allows me to make out the blue, red and gold box, the white lettering reading 'strike anywhere matches.'

            
            I remove the cellophane. The crisp crinkle in the quiet night sounds like a firecracker. I am alert. My thumbs rub the strike face, feel the subtle texture of honeycomb pattern.

            
            The box slides open. I take out a match. I wait. This is wrong, I tell myself. I shouldn't do this. It's my birthday, I counter. No one is getting hurt. I reach a compromise: just this one.

            
            I scrape the head against the side of the box, smell the sulfur, feel the tingle over my face. A breeze catches the flame before it can crawl down the wood. The light is gone in three seconds.

            
            That doesn't count. I reach into the box for another match. I light it without hesitation. The fire stays, moves slowly. The wood thins and arcs away from me as it blackens. Blue light nears my fingers then stops, a third of the match left unburned.

            
           One more. The flame reaches high, seems double, moves quickly, yellow chasing white chasing blue. I blow it out without thinking. I want it like the first time, on my birthday cake twenty-five years ago—the light, the brightness, the heat.

            
            The box holds two hundred fifty. Two hundred forty-seven chances left. By morning I will have taken them all.