The white paint on the side of the house always seemed too thick and trying to ever be real white. It always wanted to be white. It was an insincere, damaged white that flaunted failure. But it contrasted the grass, made the bright blades shine rich with sunlight and chlorophyll. My brother used to make me eat it. He shoved handfuls of thick grass into my mouth and laughed. It made him so happy. When he couldn’t get any more in my mouth, my grass stained cheeks and face tucked away under my chest, he would pull up his forehead and smile to the sun. Today is a good day, he said, warm in the afternoon light, listening to the sounds of shallow street air and a brother’s muffled crying. It feels good to be alive.