A tiny Bic lighter rests on top of my desk, which is built to resemble an old school desk and has afforded me near-daily joy for almost one year. The lighter is sky blue and is the companion to my lavender Mrs. Meyers candles. I was in the powder room of my favorite café in Brooklyn when I discovered the things. The label had been peeled off and I assumed it was a luxurious and handmade item, as everything in that neighborhood was a luxurious and handmade item. Craning my neck and lifting it overhead, I was delighted to discover the candle was acquirable and affordable. I've rarely been without one since.
I've also rarely been without a lighter. There was a time when, I'm a little afraid to admit, it was a constant, a talisman. I'd actually owned several; they were strewn about the house, where we could always find one, where we'd smoke when it was too cold to go outside. I'd pick a color to match my aesthetic, or if shopping in a bodega and given few choices, the least offensive hue. Sometimes I'd be feeling blah and the brown lighter would be purchased. It somehow felt natural and neutral, warm, earthy, and comforting.
When I finally quit (which I was actually proud of, which I probably should not have been, as it's really a no-brainer; but such was the result of my depression, slight addiction, and unsteady sense of self during those years) it hurt to see them around, to pull out an old handbag and brush my fingers against one hiding inside. I had dreams of banishing them all, but sometimes there are compromises you make, and so they stayed.
In time, the lighter became just another object. I couldn't continue on a path that was wrong for me, that was perhaps right for others, simply because I was afraid to go my own way. So I still keep one around and it no longer instills any feelings of anxiety. And yet, in a strangely sentimental way, it does remind me of when I was younger, grasping for my identity and hoping to find it in a kelly green, in a walnut brown, in a sky blue.
