My father came home smelling of soot and sweat. He strung his clothes, wilting in the memory of that day’s fire, onto the back of every chair and as he showered, I’d hide my face in their stiches. Each told a story, stained shirts sharp with lake breeze and buttons faintly bitter. When washed, flames settled into fabric, became distant and sweet. I wanted to know him like I knew his lingering smoke. Once, as he failed to light our bonfire, he said I was born to put these out, not start them. He was made to seek and save and not worry about a fire’s prelude or consequences. Instead, he wore its ashes. I wanted to refill the houses hollowed to studs, finish books that were charred to incompletion, smother buildings lit like a sun in the night. He extinguished and I rebuilt. He came from soot and I held the match.