Memory™ – Antigone Ikari

May 5, 2026

Mom went easy: trip, slip, coma, dead.

We held the wake at her house. The house was padded, sofas, easy chairs, throw pillows, earthen neutrals. Amazing that she found a sharp corner to kill herself on.

I sank into a couch: the position caused the small of my back to hurt. I didn’t move.

This was the last chance for us to see the place before it was emptied and turned into cash.

My brother (the good boy), his wife, their kids hovered in one corner, my husband, my kid, me in another. Mom’s friends formed their own nuclear group, separated from the family. The DMZ was the dining table.

We drank my mom’s liquor. We said “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

My brother, couple drinks in, holding his phone barked:

“Everyone, everyone. Can I have your attention, your attention please.”

The murmur faded.

“Thank you. I know we all miss her. I know I miss her so much,” he’s choking up now, he’s loving this, “God I miss her.” One of Mom’s friends breaks the membrane and passes him a kleenex.

“It’s so hard, I keep thinking, she’s going to call me, that she’s just away on one of her trips with the girls,” he half smiles at Mom’s friends, and they nod. I want to walk out but I don’t know how I’d explain that. I’m enduring, I think.

“Anyways, nothing can bring her back, but well, I wanted to share something I got, I had made, to honor her. It’s called a Memori. It’s an AI, I took Mom’s phone, her Facebook, her email, everything and gave it to them, and they turned it into an AI memorial, a Memori.”

He sounded like an ad.

“So even though we don’t have her, we can talk to her still, in a way. To her Memori.” While he spoke, he had been tapping his phone. He turned it around. There was a round photo of mom, within a pulsating, white circle.

“Mom, it’s Henry.” My brother said. A moment later:

“Hi Henry.” Stilted, machinic version of mom’s voice said.

“I miss you Mom.” Henry said.

“Well I’ll be back soon.” The Memori said.

My brother didn’t respond. No one said anything for a moment.

“Carol, this is Darla.” One of Mom’s friends said.

“Hi…Carol.”

“Do you remember our last trip to Carmel? It was so nice.”

“Of course I do. Donna wore that horrible orange sweatshirt the whole time. With her shape, I was afraid someone was going to try to juice her.”

Another woman (round), Donna(?), giggled.

“She always had strong opinions.” Donna(?) said.

“I’m here with Emily.” Henry said. Me.

“Oh yes…Emily…Emily never liked me much, wouldn’t you say Henry? But at least the feeling was mutual.” Mom said. My husband grasped my hand.

“Hi mom, it’s Emily.”

“Hi Emily.” Mom said.

“What do you think of Ann?” Ann was my brother’s wife. The white circle pulsed and spun. The circle paused, and then began to beat again. Henry spoke:

“Looks like she really has to think about-”

The machine voice interrupted:

“Henry could have done so much better. I don’t know why he degraded us by marrying that…thing. Bitch. Bitch.” The phone distorted. “Bi-bi-biiiitchhhhichhhh.”

My brother shut down the app.

We sold the house a few months later. After closing, we didn’t talk for two years.