I see a story on my family’s body, each gnarled branch a collective of punishment. I know the roots too well to trip, yet I do. To hike, my mother wears suede shoes more delicate than the skin of her heart. She spits to polish them but misses, instead hits the discarded foam of my father’s chair. When I ask him why, he points to the leaves. I chew them again and he pulls them from my mouth. Lays the paste to dry and builds us all another roof. I stare at the green. My sister paints it in rouge, desperate to forget the water, the way it freezes at night.