The Little Book of Fire by Maya

The Little Book of Fire by Maya - May 2017 Scholarship Essay

The first book I ever owned was a Christmas gift from my uncle. If I were to hold it now, it would fit in my palm, but at age six, a first grader with pigtails and pockets always filled with stolen chocolate, it seemed to fill my entire hand. The cardboard was thin, yet sturdy, and while the book was store bought, my uncle had hand-painted the cover. A flaming crescent moon of burning red and orange stood out against a coal-black background. Silver glitter graced the tip of each flame and trailed in strands around the book’s corners towards the back, as if the smoke itself was enchanted. Holding the little book to my face, it tickled my nose with the smell of artistry and wood. Inside the matchbook, I found twelve matchsticks, each about two inches long, stacked in two rows of six.
Now, why would I receive a matchbook as a Christmas present? Well, six-years-old is when I jumped into my fairytale-phase of the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Anderson rather than the Disney remakes. The Little Match Girl was a favorite of mine although it took me a few more years to realize the little girl had died. At that time I didn’t understand all too well the idea of “figurative.” I thought the matches were filled with magic capable of materializing a stove in the winter snow, bringing a chicken to life, and transporting a grandmother and granddaughter to a better place. As an imaginative child, I naturally asked Santa Claus for a book, a matchbook to be precise. And he must have been busy with my other presents, so he passed the request along to my uncle.
I carried my matchbook with me for twelve years, up until the day I graduated from high school. Throughout those years my matchbook and sticks served as silent companions that would bring me the same comfort they brought to the Little Match Girl. Although I eventually lost belief in the “magical” properties of the matchsticks, I discovered that I could burn away all my troubles with every little flame. At times when the stress of the day would weigh heavily on my mind, I would find myself holding my matchbook and tracing the curve of the burning moon. The scrape of the head against the striking surface and the drawn out hiss of the awakening flame would echo in my ears as the match head ignited and I stared deep into the white glow. The fire would feed on the oxygen in the air, flickering and distorting as it did so, and for a moment the heat would warm my face and fingers and I would find myself smiling. Seconds later, a trail of smoke would waft upwards in lazy circles, and I would imagine the sparkles of my book had come to life. It was easy to understand how the Little Match Girl could find such happiness in her matchstick bundle. I found the same thing in my matchbook.