I'm four years old and my brother holds my hand I blow out candles Later, we spin and spin until we fall, becoming summer and green grass and blonde curls and freckles Our own symphony playing from somewhere in the house at loud volumes and random rythms. I'm nine years old and my brother plays the violin I want to play but he won't look at me, or speak. Later, he smiles and teaches me chess and it is just like summer, only it's snowing and my brother has friends and loud music. Our symphony begins a decrescendo trumpets muted, drums fading. I'm fourteen years old and my brother, home for a few days, drives me to school. I stare out the window and he turns up the radio, then turns it down again. Later, after a silent ride home I'll sit on the floor of my room and cry because I haven't heard the symphony in such a long time.