She was crying when she answered the phone to me yesterday. It has been two weeks since we last spoke. It’s my sister’s funeral today, she said. She’d never mentioned her before, well not since she’d gone into hospital and told me of her in a home that she said was depressing. She has a brother too, she tells me. It seems the social work saw through her threat to not organise home care, for she has been relying on The Red Cross to help her dress and wash (alas, though not in this severe weather, the roads are too icy). She weeps from grief and frustration, for can do nothing for herself anymore. She will go to the funeral but remain in the car. It’s too cold for me, she says. I will stay with the little one. Her sister was younger than her but stronger, she says. I feel her sadness and ache for her. She’s to be buried at the foot of my parents grave, she said.
