Dear Family Member, don’t think you have to share your theories right now, with the final remnants of winter in the trees, or say what you did in the breath-holding days of mud and drizzle with everything south of town stalled, taking its last frozen breath as farmers rolled the remaining round bales into the pasture for cattle and the county woke up and turned off its heat. Don’t offer medical or political conjecture. Don’t bother. It’s still winter. No peepers by the cow pond, soggy plastic bags still in the street. There will be time for lecture and allegation after the new starts, scattered chartreuse florets becoming electric pink flowers on the redbud. You can wait. The summer conventions will give you occasion for that heart-to-heart. Keep what you believe you know, what you may have spotted on the news, to yourself. Keep it frozen under the last dirty ice. By August, maybe you can confess you don’t know what’s coming next, or have a remedy for the trouble you caused, hidden in winter’s misty scrub.