You called my father a Consummate, then told him Solvers were people afraid of the unknown. You sealed him in a maze without exits, leaving him to wander and wonder a way out.

You called my mother a Butterfly, then told her Butterflies were for pinning down. You pierced her wings and imprisoned her within a glass box, where she lays starving, covered in her own powder.

You called my brother The Perfect Voice, then told him his gift was meant only for God. You placed him high within a monastery, where he rings iron bells, bells that drowned out his voice.

You called me a Flower, then told me Flowers were for pressing. You folded me between the pages of X, leaving me to die within the history of xylophones.

You called our family A Beautiful Thing, then broke us and scattered us about. But a flower needs soil, the butterfly, wind. A voice needs a song, and the perfectionist, a chore. We have no choice but to be together again, because you once called our family something we never knew.