If This Repeats

Dear New Me,

For the next go around,
after our mother dies and you have to sell the childhood home,
visit it one last time when no one is there.

On this run, the last memory is our brother on the den floor,
smoking an off-brand cigarette beside an air mattress,
staring down homelessness.

Behind you, hired help is breaking the dining room table,

the one we had every Thanksgiving at,
into pieces so it fits in the dumpster.

This memory will weigh heavy on you.
Avoid it.

- Previous You