Even though the March weather had turned milder and spring was just around the corner, Martin was nevertheless despondent as he removed his coat from the closet. The ides of March was always a sorrowful time of year for him. His father had passed away on March 15th in 1973 and Martin still mourned his loss. The nature of his sorrow had changed over the years yet it was always present. Even though his father had been a comically eccentric character, Martin had always been devoted to him. His father may have been timorous, shy and ineffective but Martin still felt the bond forty three years later. His father had been shot and killed by some unknown assailant for some unknown motive. The void this created in his heart never relented, thus he never failed to visit his father's grave at Oak Park Cemetery on the anniversary of his death.

His brother David and his sister Linda had stopped attending the annual ritual after their mother Lorraine had passed away from cirrhosis of the liver. The agonizing ordeal of her affliction had changed Dave's and Linda's attitude towards their fragmented family. They had drifted away from Martin and though the three of them still maintained contact, the relationship was hollow and insignificant. Yet Martin still felt a certain duty to honor his father. He knew his life would have been very different without the close relationship they had shared even though their time together had been too brief. Martin was only six when his father was murdered.

He donned his coat for the brief ride to the cemetery and picked up the funerary gift he always left at the gravesite: oatmeal and chocolate milk. His father George had consumed the same breakfast of oatmeal and chocolate milk every single morning that Martin could remember. Martin had tried several times to convince him to eat something different for a change but his father would simply guffaw raucously whenever Martin broached the subject, then obliviously continue eating.

When Martin arrived at the graveside, he knelt down and laid the package on the grass. He wondered what the cemetery attendants thought of the curious memento. They would have been surprised by how appropriate the gift was. He knew George would have appreciated it more than flowers. The sylvan setting of the cemetery reminded him of his Swiss prep school days, hiking through the mountains on the weekends. As ever, Martin's thoughts turned to what might have been. Remembrance of his father's droll visage brought tears of joy and sorrow to his eyes. If George had lived, he and his father would have shared a longer and deeper relationship and Martin would never have had to endure the torturous torment of his brutish loudmouthed stepfather. Marty vowed once again to exact vengeance on Biff someday.