My sister always told me that it took years for me to hit an age where my

                 rage was finally a redeemable quality. She said fourteen, maybe fifteen.

That was when she could look once instead of twice, spotting something

                 beyond a howl cupped into a palm. Instead of a lineup of faceless years

gazing back under smudges of warpaint. Personality doesn’t come full circle

                 until ten identical houses are burnt to the ground. I think about ages

four, five. Enough of my skin scorched in those days but no one ever saw smoke.

                 Parts of my ash show up in an essay and I’m still burning, I think.