Chapter Thirteen

The last recorded correspondence from Voah was a poem, written for his mother. He mailed it to the prison, and it was forwarded to her.

It was sent two and a half months after, unbeknownst to him, he was recognized by the man in the cafe.


The Gift

i remember, once,
there was a flower in your garden.

a tulip.

do you remember that day
that i picked the tulip out of
your flowerbed?

you told me
we could put it in a vase.

you put it on the mantel,
over the fireplace.
i loved that little flower.

one day, i gave it a gift.
i put sugar into its water.

later that week,
i saw that it was dead
and you said there was
nothing we could do.

that what was dead
was dead.

that was me, mom.
that little tulip was me.
i ripped myself out of the ground,
and you put me back in a vase.
you tried to fix me.

i had a gift.

and it was the gift
that did us in,
in the end.


Two weeks after the letter was mailed, Voah was preparing for another one of his moves. He stepped out onto the sidewalk, starting the six-block walk to his car.

In the distance, thunder rumbled.

It was raining.