I am a coastal summer baby, I am a magic act. Nails sunset orange, hair stiff from salt, the days slip by and my skin constantly blooms deeper shades of pink like a photo in the darkroom: who knows where color will splash, what shapes will emerge with enough patience and prayer? Here, the sun comes and goes with frequency, but when it’s out it is as warm and strong as the arms that used to wrap my grateful, shivering little 8-year-old body towel-tight. It would be impossible for me to disassociate warmth from being tucked in, from being secure and content. My hands smell like char from the burnt piece of cardboard I was using to light the oven pilot, though I have…