You should be 13 now and Dad still calls you Cimbo, a nickname we crave to shake loose like pimples and oatmeal creme Little Debbie cakes. You worry too much. You worry about our Mom and Dad—the music of something breaking. It's red with light, all the noise sometimes. Put your head in a book of sand, bring your little brother in the back room, and close the door. There is a suitcase full of hurt there. And no, you can't unpack it. Think of that summer when you were six and our foot slipped into a house of red ants. The biting up your right leg—the stings and the buzzing. Mama told you to pretend like you were a possum, play dead as rivulets of alcohol dripped down dark as blood. The insects fell one by one—dead little bodies all over the place. Mama held you next to the fullness of her thighs. You didn't cry. No hollering or heaving—take hold of that memory now; rub it between your fingers. The secret of living in this body is time, and all the worrying is like walking backwards on a track. You think I don't know you? Your favorite word is Appalachian because of the way consonants and vowels curl around the tongue. This is the time when you should only dream dreams. By now you should know that sometimes you have to write, in order to figure out what you can never say.