Checklist by Lucinda Lagos-Wagner
Checklist
without realising it, i had been anticipating grief for a long time. sitting in the fish and chip shop after school, waiting until it was dark and you’d take us home. i wrote lists in my childhood diary that showed i was in mourning for something i didn’t understand. the lists were titled things like;
“things about myself to change before grade 6”, “reasons why i hate soccer”, “things that make you angry”.
some lists were very long, added to over time.
◦ how did i know how to grieve?
after i wasn’t able to ask them anymore i wrote down the most important questions, i tried to remember your answers if you had them. i came to understand that everything i ask gets answered in your voice. every day i remember your voice a little less clearly. maybe one day i’ll think i have no more questions, but you’ll just have no more voice.
◦ how hot was the sun where you grew up and why did you never tell me?
in my head, when i ask you this, you pull the sun out from behind your back with a smile, you say here it is, i brought it down just for you to see what it was like. when i touch it it burns, obviously, but i pretend it doesn’t so you won’t be offended. you say, I never told you because you never asked. it keeps burning, i say ouch without meaning to. i feel guilty when you put the sun away again. do you feel guilty for letting me hold it?
✓ can you bring me some chips home tonight?
[ANS. Of course. They’ll be cold.]
> with extra chicken salt, please?
◦ do you think it would’ve made a difference to speak?
sometimes the lists were demands too. sometimes the demands were unreasonable, like please go away forever and ever, please go somewhere where you can’t reach me, please bring home the crunchy bits from the bottom of the deep fryer so i can sprinkle them on top of my vegetables. sometimes the demands were met.
✓ what was it like to see bob dylan live?
[ANS. He was an old man sitting in the corner of a stage.]
✓ are you mad at me?
the more i look back, the further away it gets. a pillar of salt. if i don’t think about it, it will never disappear. even without the sight and sound, there’s smells that don’t leave my nostrils and will never change. fish and chips. the questions you used to ask me were utilitarian and you always knew the answers anyway, how was school, do you want some battered scallops too?
◦ were you ever afraid?
> what of?
✓ can i go read in my bedroom now?
◦ did you think you would ever be forgiven?
> how did it feel not to know?
back when i used to still ask, i’d imagine that i’d come home and sit you down and make you answer for all of it. i’ve stopped asking, and there’s no home to come home to. if you ever answered, it wasn’t in a language i knew. the oil smell seeped into everything you wore, and the car seats, and it made everything you’d say fly up from the wire basket and leave small burns up my forearms.
✓ you’re driving so fast, can you please slow down?
[ANS. I know how to drive. I want to get home.]
◦ when i was born did i look like my sister?
◦ what was i supposed to do?
◦ what happened to all your old CDs?
◦ how do i get the smell out?
◦ did anger move in your body like a fish in a net, were you afraid of the way it felt to push down on its fragile scales, was it easier to just cut it out and gut it right in front of us, was it shimmering and beautiful and too small to kill but too bloody to throw back, was it the perfect size for dinner, would it feed a whole family, did it cut new fingerprints into you with its fragile spine, did you prefer it battered and golden and dripping with oil, did you mean to let us choke on the bones or was it all a big misunderstanding, would it matter either way?
◦ are you sorry?
◦ are you sorry?
◦ are you sorry?
