I hired a professional mourner for my father's burial. She wailed a name none of us knew.

The mourner gave me a small cloth with an address stitched into the corner. My uncles will not answer calls. My aunty cried and said, Your grandfather decided. The twin sister has been sending a card to my father every birthday for forty years. He kept every one in a locked suitcase under his bed.

She is seventy-one. She is very small. She asked if he suffered at the end and I said no. She asked if he ever mentioned her and I lied and said yes. Then she brought out a blue cloth and wrapped it around my shoulders and said it was meant for the day her brother finally came home. The mourner was right. Someone had to say her name out loud.