'A List of Things That Fall', by Lesley Warren
Here’s a list of things that fall: ripe oranges from trees, exchange rates, blood pressure, red velvet curtains at the end of shows, you.
That last one is new. You’ve been airborne 0.7 seconds and counting.
You’re probably expecting some sort of cosmic revelation, some pearl of ancient wisdom shared only in extremis, something to make it all make sense. And you want it, like, yesterday, because you’re hurtling for the asphalt at an alarming rate.
Sorry, but I’m going to have to disappoint you. Do you really think you’re the only one shuffling off this mortal coil today? Pretty self-centered of you, if you ask me.
(Not that you did.)
Listen, kid: I’ve got a list of names as long as the Nile to get through and they sure as hell ain’t paying me overtime.
What’s that? You want the whole “life flashing before your eyes” thing? Sure, why not, seeing as you asked so nicely. Normally I’d’ve said “no can do”, but I figure it won’t take long if we just do the highlight reel.
Okay, so… I’m just gonna quickly sift through your head before it explodes like a watermelon. Hmm…
Ooh, I like this one. It’s colorful.
Let me set the scene. Location: La Bella Trattoria. Context: your first date. You’ve just turned sweet sixteen and you’re wearing that brown skirt your mom said was too short so you sneaked out of the house wearing it under jeans and he’s late. Like, majorly late. It’s actually beginning to get dark outside, he leaves you hanging for so long. What a scumbag, amirite? So you decide to drown your sorrows in carbs at the pasta buffet but then - watch out for the bird, you freakin’ maniac! - the guy turns up and he’s seriously hot. You just about die looking into those baby blues. So what do you do? You extend your hand and instead of introducing yourself, your stomach does this insane 360 kickflip and you puke all over him, and you, in glorious Technicolor, and this awful silence falls over the whole restaurant as everyone just watches.
Wowza.
Not a fan? Okay, let’s try another. It’s got cool music.
So your mom’s in surgery for something - it’s giving tumor vibes, is that right? - aw, neat! - and you’re just this dumb little kid with pigtails hunched over your Game Boy, which your dad definitely bought you as compensation for something. Cute. You’ve just scored a Charizard and you’re thinking hey I’m finally gonna beat the shit out of Bulbasaur when your dad materializes outta nowhere and hoo boy, he’s looking pissed. He grabs your arm so hard the Gameboy flies out of your hand and whizzes across the waiting room floor. The battle music stops and the screen shuts off. You stare up at your pops and his face is this God-awful color, almost grayscale, just like the newspaper he’s been pretending to read these past three hours. He’s telling you something: at least, you think he is, because you can clearly see his mouth moving. But you can’t read lips and your ears, well, it must be the shock, because you don’t hear a goddamn thing.
What, you don’t like that either? Geez, kid. This ain’t Disneyland. I’m just working with what you’re giving me.
See, people always think my job is easy, like I’m some glorified compère slash chauffeur for the soon-to-be dearly departed. But they’re dead wrong. (Ha! - see what I did there?) Let me tell you something -
Oh, shoot.
I hope you enjoyed flying with me today. Try not to make too much of a mess. This right here’s your stop.
Lesley Warren lives for language. Born to Welsh and Filipino parents and now a resident in Germany for her job as a translator, her work encompasses themes of identity, alienation and "otherness." Her poetry and prose have featured in a variety of print and digital publications, among them the anthologies of the Frankfurt English Creative Writing Group, as well as a podcast.
Photography by Lesley Warren