That Specific Scratch

The power went out on a Tuesday.

I was standing in the kitchen,

not doing much.

The drawer stuck, like it does.

I found the matchbook toward the back —

some restaurant I have no memory of,

the cover bent from being in there.

The first match didn't catch.

Just the drag of it across the strip

and then nothing.

The second caught too fast —

right at my face.

I held still.

The kitchen was there for a second.

The mug on the sill. The window.

My own hands.

Then just the candle going

and the rest of the room

falling back.

It wasn't a memory.

It wasn't anything I could name.

Just the scratch landing

before the thought —

like it had always been in there,

and just needed the right dark Tuesday

to confirm it.