Two sisters, a husband who glows when his bosses call, a San Francisco Victorian, a club I run when nothing's trying to kill anyone. I hold it together, usually in oven mitts. I freeze rooms with a gesture; lately I blow it up too — the family calls it my personality. I cook the way other people pray, keep a Book upstairs older than the city, was the middle sister until we buried the eldest — the middle stopped existing. Bring the strange problem to the kitchen door; the kettle's already on.