When it's said,
They threw the book at him
That can be rather misleading.

I mean, was it as harmless
As a flimsy graphic novel?
Or something far more frightening,
Like an unabridged dictionary?

Time has left stains
on all the things I love.
sepia,
crumpled in some dark corner
of an old cardboard box,
burdened heavy
by a smell,
familiar, sad.
consumed
like the tiny perfume bottles
on the edge
of my Oma's bathtub.
along,
vague,
a whisper of shame.

I've said her eyes had
the color of a madness shade
of blue.
That's not true.
They are the color of
love and angels, and
eternal spring.
Her eyes sing of
motherhood and light rain.
The sun shines through them-
a tepid pool that I
want to jump in and swim;
back float through the
daisies and spilled juice,
through the ravens-
all the way to heaven.

So you may Come or you Can go
the Choice is yours not the snow's.

Dear Mom & Dad,

I won't be coming home quite as soon as once thought. I have found a place where they really like me; a place like no other. Instead of being shunned and despised, like most places, I'm invited to everything:
parties,
picnics,
and parades,
my neighbors even welcome me with open arms. Suffice-to-say, I finally feel like I belong and plan to stay a while in this country.

Your Son,
Covid-19 Coronavirus, III