—Edna

That’s it? I flip the card to the back, peer inside the envelope. I stare at the image of the cartoonish woman, her nest of orange curls and purple turban, her glittering hoop earrings. Her table is covered in a cloth emblazoned with silver moons, and her crystal ball is perfectly round with a well-placed swoosh. But it is the three cards before her that draw me in. They are simplified, but if you look closely enough and know what you are looking at, you can just make out a devil, a tower, and a skeleton.

Was this what Moony wanted my mom to see? Why? And how would Moony have known what they were or what they meant? Moony did not traffic in the supernatural. She didn’t believe in anything science couldn’t prove, except the Eucharist and her weird superstitions. I hid my tarot deck from her because my mother told me to and because I knew if she ever found the cards, she would take them away. She would think they were bad. Not boogeyman evil, just sin. So why would she want my mother to see these? And how did she know enough about them to know that’s the message my mother needed to hear?

As I slide the card back into its envelope, I check the date over the stamp—just months before my mom’s final visit, when I was thirteen. It appears to be the last card Moony ever sent.

I gather the cards back to put in the bin, but when I lean over it to drop a handful inside, something catches my eye. An item remains at the bottom, inconspicuous, forgotten. I pick it up, flipping it between my fingers. A matchbook. It’s funny to think that matches are still a thing. Is there something about this book that is special for her to keep it with my photos and Moony’s letters, with every important document she owns? It doesn’t look special. The background is white. One side reads The Pelican Room in a fat, cartoony font. It looks like your typical book of bar matches.

I flip it over again and notice the striker is crossed with an uneven line—just one. I open the cover to find three rows of matches, all lined up like perfect soldiers in red helmets. But in the front row, a gap shines where one match is missing. The frayed remains of where it was ripped away are soft against the pad of my finger. There is a story here, tucked in the space between the matches. I can feel the heat of it like the ghost of a fire struck long ago. And much as I hate to admit it, I am curious.