Joy is a penny you spend on candy. She died without laughing. He always thought she would laugh. He made sure, then called for the man who you call for. He watched her and noticed her shadows were gone. He went on to build birdhouses, buy presents for Grandchildren. Grandchildren too busy to write or to call. He went on, mostly lonely, became a bother, a burden.
His son came to get him, Come on, Dad, let's go." He sat in his shadow, "Dad, you haven't even packed yet." Soon his daughters were there, helping him up. They took him outside to their car. He can't drive. He never looked back at the house and it faded. It vanished behind him, it washed out, aged and crumbled. His daughters had fought over Mom's trinkets and wishes. He remembers the day they had their first fight. His wife told him about it beside him in bed. "How can sisters fight like that?" They still fight like that.
He found a chair at the Home and sat to look at the wallpaper. He sat in his shadow. His kids stayed a while, enough to say they had stayed. The nurses said he would need some time to adjust. They gave him adjustment pills. The pills took his mind. Mercifully, the pills broke down the shelves where memories sit. They pull the cushions from the couch where pennies might hide. I met him the day the nurses called. They had called for the person you call for. Like the Angel before me, I found a man on a journey. I picked him up gently, told him to go home