At the age of eight, my father intentionally burned down our family home.
He used friction.
He found a friend of my mother’s cousin and conducted friction.
Eventually, the friction made sparks and landed on some highly flammable material.
Namely, my mother.

The house and kids went up in flames next.
My sisters crawled away with smoke-charred toddler onesies.
But he’d give them a proper burn later.
My mother and I. Well.

We often returned to the charred remains of the house in those first years.
Picking on our own.
And each other’s scabs.

My mother has healed as best she could.
She even took well to some grafting techniques.
But there are still a few obvious reminders of the fire.

My father has since set fire to four more homes.
Better survivors of those fires.
I only hear occasional news reports of the pyromaniac.

And on those days.
I like to remind myself that I’ve always got a gallon of gasoline on hand.
That I’m comfortable lighting cheap hotel and bar matches.
Sometimes burning them down to the tips of my fingers.
And that I’ve grown accustomed to the singe and melted tips of my nails.

Unfortunately.
I don’t know me well enough to say.
I won’t burn his home down one day.
Let alone my own.