I found the tiny box buried somewhere between the forgotten and the undusted in my studio. The cover was torn almost in two. I gave it a gentle shake. There were still matches inside. Surely the hidden years would have deadened them, but I pulled one out. I gave it a timid strike. Nothing. One more time. It crackled and flamed, lighting the still vibrant color of the rooster cover.  Illuminating proudly the origin, “Made in Sweden.”

It probably won’t come as a surprise, with a maiden name like Elsie Erickson, that my Grandma was Swedish. As a child, I didn’t really even know what that meant. Other than when she “talked on Swede” to the neighbors on the party line wall phone, I couldn’t really see a difference between Swedish and American. I knew she was special though. There was a light. An unmistakable light that came through in a wink and a twinkle. And I was a baby moth. So attracted to the warmth of her heart-shine. I would apron up to her in the kitchen. Climb on her lap during Days of Our Lives. Use her as a night-light, sleeping on the sofa just outside of her bedroom. 

So of course these matches worked. I walk by her portrait, and I still feel the warmth. I don’t know if all Swedish heart lights are permanent, but for me, she shines. Ever.