Matchbook

From a very early age, I recognized I was not afraid of fire. In fact, I took comfort in it. I stood on the great Mount Ararat as my mother sputtered on the Earth. She whispered to me,

“Vartan, fly this place. Just keep going.”
I turned and looked at her weary body, withering into nothingness on the ground.
“You must not sleep, Mother,” I replied, “for how can I fly if you do not show me the way?”
She smiled, her eyelids closing as she did so.
“You will find the way. Have faith.”
“In such times, we cannot,” I said.
“Oh, boy, in such times, it is all we have,” she replied.

I merely sighed at her words and sank to my knees. I took a pack of matches from my pocket and examined the package:

Madner’ Miasin Gerav
Abovian Str. 17, Yerevan.

They came from my father’s restaurant. I remembered pocketing them just before this all started, before we were sent on this march through the mountains.

I went home after school to find no home at all. Mother sat on the doorstep of our house, weeping as flames engulfed it. As I approached her, she swallowed me into her arms and buried her soggy face in my neck.

“The worst of our fears has been confirmed,” she wailed, “the Turks have come for us, Vartan. Oh, Shavarsh, Shavarsh!”

I listened to my mother cry Father’s name and curse the Turks for destroying us, but my mind drifted as the flames danced before my eyes. Neither of us budged from the doorstep. This was our home. How could we ever leave it?

Our neighbor rushed out of his burning home, still in his pajamas from his afternoon nap. He screamed and choked on the thick smoke that had filled the neighborhood.

“Astuats! Oh, lord, why?” he cried, trying to pat the flames from his body. I did not budge. The fire held more intrigue to me than saving my dear friend’s life. He looked at us,

“Vartan, tsakig,” he began, “please, help.”
Mother looked up and screamed, watching the man’s flesh burn.

“Vartan,” she cried, pushing me to his aid. I stumbled and stared as the man writhed, still burning. What could I possibly do?

His charred body sank to the ground and ceased to move. I tapped him with my foot, but got no response. I looked at Mother,

“He’s asleep,” I said. She sobbed and pulled me into her arms. It was after this she told me that we had to leave.

“Where are we going?” I asked as we ran through the forest, “where is Father? Shouldn’t we wait for him?”

Mother sniffled,
“He isn’t coming,” she said.
“Why not?” I asked, slowing down a bit to catch my breath.
“He has left us,” she explained.
“He wouldn’t,” I replied.
“He could not stop, my son,” she said, “they have taken him from us.”
I blinked.
“Will he come back?” I asked. Mother wept.
“Come along, we must continue.”

We made it to the base of the mountain and decided to rest.
“They can’t get us here. It is a holy ground,” Mother said, squeezing the cross around her neck.
“When is dinner?” I asked.
“When the Lord wills it,” she answered, closing her eyes to sleep below the stars. I stayed awake and played with the matches I still had in my pocket. I lit one and watched the flame fade just before it could touch my skin. I smiled and lay down to rest beside Mother.

The next day, I built a fire to keep warm and to cook. Mother told me to put it out because the Turks would find us.
“It is too dangerous,” she insisted, “they will see the smoke and kill us. Put it out, please, before it is too late.”
“Mother, you are silly,” I said, “look how happy the flames are. Look how they dance. We should let them dance. How can we eat if they do not dance? How will we stay warm at night?”
Mother scowled. I walked away to look over our area and when I returned, Mother had stopped the flames from dancing. But for a week, I let them dance while she slept.

I lit a match as she rested on the Earth, and when I turned to speak to her, to ask her if we could ever fly again, I saw how still she had become. I dropped the match and crawled to her.
“Stop lighting those, Vartan,” she croaked, “I have told you what happens.”
“But it has not,” I said, “look how we are still safe. It has not harmed us to let them dance.”
Mother exhaled heavily and turned her head to the side. Her face rested on the Earth and her mouth was filled with it. I laughed,
“Mother, you are silly. You can’t sleep now!”
She said nothing, she just kept sleeping. I scowled and threw a match onto the pile of rotten stick I had found. I smiled as I watched them dance before my eyes.

“Look at them, Mother,” I exclaimed, “look how they dance.”
She did not reply. She kept sleeping. I frowned and ran my fingers through the flames with haste, feeling invincible. Night fell and I took my rest beside the flames.
When I woke, they had faded. I sighed and took out the package to start another fire, only to find that it was empty. I blinked and shook my head.
“Mother, we have no more matches and the fire has died,” I said. I turned to look at her only to find that she had not moved at all. She said nothing. I crawled to her and shook her.
“Mother,” I repeated, still getting no response, “what has gotten into you? Wake up, silly.”

But she slept still. I waited for her to wake, but she did not. Hunger set in and I shivered in the dark with no flames to keep warm by, to cook with, or to watch dance. Mother did not wake, and I, too, grew sleepy.
“How can I fly if you do not show me the way?” I asked. I lay down next to her and closed my eyes to sleep. I was flying right beside her.