To My Future Self.

There was a time when I walked everywhere
when I didn’t scrub floors on the side
and was afraid of men with deep voices.
A time when I didn’t wear thirty SPF sunscreen
or cut up your pasta for you.
A time when my parents sent me off
into the world

with a letter to open on the plane

Mom, she asks, what happened—
and I have no response
except to tell her, to warn her
not to change too much or choose
too much or lose too much of your key
ingredients:

a dash of asphalt, a sprinkle of old shoes
newspapers that rustle inky blues into the air
on clean Sunday mornings at the breakfast table.
Skip church sometimes, I tell her
drink too much wine at night
sometimes and poke fun at the priest’s
funny hat

Listen to me
when you shouldn’t;
that’s when what I say is real honest and dark scary
my advice comes in thunderstorms and breezes.
So when I cut your pasta with fork and knife
open your eyes wide.