My grandma collected matches. She scooped them up on business trips from
the 1940s through the 80s, while buying ladies’ dresswear for a
department store in Louisville, Kentucky. An unapologetic little chimney
herself, her rhythm was as athletic as a baton toss: one matchbook for
the purse, one for the table nestling the smokes. One book burned up on
the spot; the other got shepherded into a tall glass jug, slightly
larger than a lung, to wait out its unignited life in her basement.
Observatory
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