I light the match and immediately blow it out.
Today there are 146 of them lying in formation, waiting their turn for the pyre.
Later, I cram the burnt offerings into three matchbox coffins and record their numbers.
2936.
2937.
2938.
I carefully place them on the crowded wooden table, where the photo frame still stands central.
One of the matches, squashed into box 108, flared on the day when Mum lost the Covid battle.
Originally published: Paragraph Planet
