16 x 20
Somewhere in the midst of winter, she misplaced her internal summer. That invincible sunshine that warmed her more than the many layers or her new furry boots was now hidden behind a flurry of grey clouds. Her body felt like an outdated furnace unable to hold a flame.
She heard so many tragic stories about people lighting their pilot lights, she was afraid to even strike a match.
She shuddered when she remembered a girl she saw years ago. A clear plastic mask covered what was once a beautiful face. Five tiny holes remained as features on a shiny, pink plane. An image so far removed from it's origin, yet ever so present in her mind. She realized that if she didn't act quickly, she would be an igloo by morning.
With a crick and a crack she got down on her arthritic knees and struck the match. She pressed down on that cantankerous knob and reached inside the furnace. The lit match was beginning to burn her fingers, when all of a sudden a thunderous boom sent her tumbling backwards. Instinctively she checked her face.
She did it! She lit the pilot light!
Actually as proud as she was, she felt a little silly.
It wasn't that difficult.
As the warmth welled up inside her, she felt the coldness shift away.
She realized the effort required to ignite her flame was minuscule compared to the consequence.
I mean, who really wants to go through life as an igloo?