It's a Sunday evening, and I'm sitting down at my desk, the one that is awkwardly nestled into the bay window at the front of my apartment. If the desk was slightly more narrow, it would fit perfectly, but as it stands the width prevents me from making it flush. The phone rings, so I stand up to get it, banging my knee in the process. For some reason I just mouth the word “fuck”, without actually saying it, despite the fact that I'm alone.

My sister and I haven't spoken in a few weeks, so she decided to call me (she says). She tells me about her husband's new job, and I ask how her boys are doing (they are doing well). In the past few weeks, not much has changed it seems. She complains about her landlord for a bit, and I commiserate, because I hate mine as well. Without prompt, she tells me how our parents are doing. Fine, it seems. Although I often wondered about them during the first year, more recently I've sort of just assumed that they'll go on living forever in just the way they always have, with minor medical hiccups along the way. Of course, I know they will die at some point, but for the time being they seem to me like just another static prop, maybe less hair but the same idea.

When my father finally passes away, I'm surprised and, more than anything, a bit chagrined. As awful as this sounds, it's the same way I felt when my sister told me that Nooley's, my old local, closed down. Such a fixed part of my memory; I thought it would continue in perpetuity, with the same old drunks, same haggard waitresses, same old chicken wings. Despite the saying it seems unfair that death and tax spares no one and nothing.

My sister called again, but I didn't bump my knee this time. She's very upset; apparently her husband has been laid off from work. The recession, and he's got the least seniority. I tactlessly mention the irony of him having left his last job because this one offered a higher salary, and my sister bursts into sobs. Between her loud breathing, she starts to yell at me for my lack of compassion, and again brings up the fact that I wasn't there for my father's funeral. I try to mention that I had work that day, but she won't hear it and hangs up.

I'm starting to feel like a bit of a recluse. My sister hasn't called in over a month, and when I went to the trouble of dialing her, her husband answered and told me that she no longer wanted to speak to me. Considering the comedic irony of being made unwelcome when it was I who left in the first place, I'm surprised that I can't find the humour in it. When my mother passes away, this time I'll make sure I book the time off work.