It was in March of '99 that I got the call.

"Martha is dead."

How? Why? No one knew. No one cared.

They loaded her up in a casket carried by thirteen men because thirteen was the number you got from stuffing too much shit in your mouth and leaving no relatives with a good memory of what once was.

It was just me, Louis and the kids. My brother was not much of a sentimental worrywart so he was off wandering somewhere in the cemetery.

We said the words, called the prayers and bid farewell and none of us came to remember her anymore.

She was a stranger as much as we were to one another.

But the fact of the matter was... I still cared.

I asked Louis how'd she truly pass. He said it was God's plan. "Your brother watched over her day and night. He was the first to find her."

When I went to look for my brother, I found him drowning his sorrows in booze by the great tree.

This was always his spot. He came here when we buried our grandfather, when our mother passed and now it was our sister's funeral.

"How was she... before?" I asked.

"Ah, same ol', same ol'," he said, chugging down the same empty bottle he had hung on for hours. "Half the time she'd wake the entire neighbourhood claiming I was a burglar, the other she'd cry for my help."

"She was always so forgetful."

"Indeed she was," he chuckled. "That night I told 'er to lay low on the carbs but she wouldn't listen. Made a whole mess in the kitchen too. I had to make me tea after the clean-up. Still she was president. Fight broke out. I left for a bit. Came back. Found her still as a plank o' wood... s'all like hazy dream."

It was then that I found him rummaging through the pockets of his coat.

"Ah shit, can't my pack. Musta been in the car." He looked at me; his face sweating like a man who felt his heart plummet. "Sorry, Sydney. Be right back."

I watched my brother leave, chasing after his fleeting memories. And I couldn't help but laugh.

My name is Laura.