He was strong, his right side anyway, and emanated a look of frightened authority as we lifted him from that bed and put him onto the stair chair and carried him out of his home. The stroke happened sometime during the night, the damage too severe, comfort measures only at the hospital. He had a good run, eighty-nine years, but never expected to go down so suddenly.
He died a few days later, and his wife left his bedside, and went home. But it wasn’t home, not really. Memories can only do so much for a grieving spouse. The familiar footfalls, the routine, the smells and sounds that come from a living, breathing mate can never be replaced by a memory.
So we come back to where she lives, the place she used to call home, and this time take her away. The anxiety of living there, alone became too much. She would stay awake all night, in the hospital bed in the front room, and listen for the familiar sounds that were no more.
Home is where her husband is. It won’t be long before she joins him.