Last night, I used the final match in a box to light a candle. This may seem insignificant to all but a tiny number of my readers.
Several years ago (I expect it was in 1990, but I’m not sure) a few of us went camping in the Smoky mountains, and then, later, in the forests in north Georgia. I’m actually not even certain if this was the same camping trip, or two trips. I think they were the same trip. Anyways, we bought a package of matchboxes. Rosebud brand. When we came back from that trip, we each had a box of these matches which was largely unused. Being the packrat that I am, I kept that box, and didn’t use any of the matches for many years. I found the box several months ago, and started using it. So this was the last match from that 13-year-old box of matches.
I suppose that this should be profoundly significant in some earth-shaking way. But, somehow, it’s just not. Which is a shame, really. I was almost hoping it would be. It’s sad how some things are just … meaningless. I’m open to deep philosophical interpretations.