We were raised up by our mother’s singing. She took the lead, the start of the thread, in every song and we let her. Her hands opened like she carried invisible plates to feed everyone. We were raised up by our father’s paintings drying on the walls. Turpentine hung in the windows and refused to leave. We don’t push our mouths into singing since we lost her and when we found a tube of paint someone left behind, we squeezed it all out onto the sidewalk and let the sun eat it right up.