MargenAt the bottom of the supermarket trolley I found a forgotten shopping list. I was about to throw it away when I recognised the handwriting: it was mine. The crooked capitals, the Greek e my father taught me. My exact hand.
I hadn't written it.
«Candles. Black thread. The wine Mum liked. Plasters. White flowers.»
And at the end, underlined twice: my full name.
I kept it, uneasy, and that week life went crossing the list off for me. Tuesday's power cut: candles. The jacket button at my aunt's funeral: black thread. Friday's dinner at my sister's: Mum's wine — I bought it without thinking, she said. The cut on my thumb on Saturday: plasters.
By yesterday only the white flowers and my name were left.
Today a delivery man rang the bell with a bunch of lilies. «Is that you?», he asked, looking at a card I couldn't quite read.
I still haven't answered him. As long as I don't say yes, the list can't be finished.