When you asked me about the future,
I don't tell you what kind of dress I'll wear
at your funeral
and I don't tell you it's probably the same one I wore at my best friend's dance recital
in 10th grade.
You picked up a sunflower and twirled it by it's stem and I want to say,
"There. She was doing that on stage. Mid October, her dance recital."
I remember I clapped the loudest.

I asked you a series of questions like what is your favorite type of flower?
Which music hits your heart the worst:
Slow classics or a fast attempt at fitting love into verses?
Remind me again, what was your brother's name?
Did God touch you more than she did?

You ask again about my future,
I tell you about my past,
how I once cut my hair at age six and hid it low in the trash can before Mom came home.
My grandmothers laundry shack and cinder blocks in front.
I tell you I know things about my father that I shouldn't.

You, picking the flower apart now, ask again what I'll be doing in 10 years,
and I reply:
It's a black dress. Please, please, don't make me wear it.