I have a scar on my back. It’s red and shiny. I don’t know how long it’s been there or where it came from. Running too fast or falling too hard as a kid I’d imagine. I can’t remember where every cut or bruise came from, let alone a single scar.

As a kid, Mom would have campfires and we’d sit together in the smoke. I loved the smell of lingering smoke on my clothes, but I hated how it burned my eyes and lungs.

Mom always said that fire was healing, it was cleansing. It destroyed impurities. She showed me forest fires, trees going up in smoke to be replaced with lush, younger greenery. Whatever burned came back stronger. I understood that fire was a way to start fresh, to begin again.

Every spring – forgotten books, old photos and papers would be reduced to ash. I’m in the attic, stacking boxes to be thrown onto the fire. I’ve always stacked and carried the boxes. “You’re bigger and stronger” my mom would tell me, even when I only reached her knees. I’m almost to her shoulders now.

I’m almost finished when I drop the last box with surprise. A piece of paper is poking out the corner, giving me a papercut. I don’t examine it, it’s small and will healed soon. Instead, I lift the lid to tuck everything back inside.

The first of many birth certificates stares back at me. I instinctively read the name, it’s mine but the year is wrong. Almost 15 years wrong. I dive into the box, sorting though documents and certificates for over a dozen children with my name. All less than a year apart. I pickup the open box and carefully make my way down the stairs.

Mom is in the kitchen. She is making smores for tonight’s campfire. I set the box down next to the graham crackers with a thud.

“What’s that honey?” Mom asks me, nodding to the box, never taking her eyes off the chocolate she in unwrapping. I stand there silently, until she notices. She looks up at me and sees the box.

“Did you carry that big heavy box all by yourself? That’s my big strong boy!” She coos with a smile on her face. I relax, there is no danger here. No cause for concern.

“Mom?” I ask. “Why do I have so many birth certificates?”

She looks surprised and then busts out laughing. “No honey, those aren’t your birth certificates. They’re your older brothers!” I’m more confused. I don’t have any brothers. I don’t have any siblings. I respond as much and ask where they are and why I’ve never met them.

Mom pauses and tilts her head to one side, as though the answer is obvious. She blinks slowly and explains, “Fire takes the unwanted and weak. Only those strong enough to burn will thrive and grow”

She said I burned better.

I healed faster.

She’s right, I only have a scar.