This is a daughter's story. In "Small Fires," Julie Marie Wade recreates the landscape of her childhood with a lacemaker's care, then turns that precise attention on herself. There are floating tea lights in the bath, coddled blossoms in the garden, and a mother straddling her teenage daughter's back, astringent in hand, to better scrub her not-quite-presentable pores. And throughout, Wade traces this lost world with the same devotion as her mother among her award-winning roses. "Small Fires" is essay as elegy, but it is also essay as parsing, reconciliation, and celebration, all in the attempt to answer the question--what have you given up in order to become who you are?