Do years have twins, like sister cities--odd pairings, no clear relation? I woke up around ten, my bangs too short. I cut them myself with nail scissors in the bathroom mirror. Then I took a long, fast walk, hoping the breeze I stirred up would set things right. And in the fall, with our newly single father, accumulating things at the Saturday market, windchimes, hackeysacks, elephant ears, the weight of the river--if I had only known. Sitting here, my hair just cut, soft tufts on the kitchen floor--will I look back and think, how perfect?