Light

As the sunlight fades each evening, she attempts to generate her own light to keep from going cold—from going numb. Even the smallest light will do. But for every spark she manages to strike she must watch it, once enclosed in the cold clasp of her tiny palm, slowly flicker out.  

Frustrated, she begins to look for light elsewhere. She finds it at a bonfire, a murmur of emotion from all who have gathered around—crackling throats, burning faces, bursting hearts. But this is the light of others and she cannot keep it as her own. She listens to their stories and sings along to their songs. She grows warm from this light and keeps bits and pieces for herself, creating an archive of moments that she can revisit. 

She returns to the bonfire most evenings, but she still goes numb on occasion. She is older now and she has come to understand that, sometimes, there is no light to be found within herself and that light from others is only partially inspiring. But that is when she stops for a moment and looks out at those last few sunbeams of the day, those infinite little rays that still manage to warm her hands, while the fireflies make spectacles of themselves, in hopes of receiving her fake smile. They twinkle a yellowish-green, as they land on her outstretched palm. But even they cannot pick the lock she has placed over her fiercely careful, cold little heart.