One for Sorrow, Two for Joy

They live near the hospital, the two of them.  They will continue to live there, together, until the day that one of them doesn’t return.  When she’s not hungry, she prefers to stay with her things.  She likes to see them glitter in the sunshine, to know that they are hers.  But he likes to get out and about, he’s the social one.  He pops up here and there, he likes to watch people go by, and he rattles out a harsh laugh at their foolish antics.  He doesn’t mind that she doesn’t come out with him much.  Because, for some reason, those people are even more entertaining when he’s on his own.  When she’s there, they might look and smile, but then they move on.  But when he’s alone, they stare at him and take notice.  Sometimes they talk to him, sometimes they wave their hands up to their heads.  He likes to think that it’s because they admire him so.  That he’s at his sleeky and glossy best.  He holds his head up and laughs at them.  But he also knows that when he’s alone, he seems to have some mysterious hold on their nerves.  Are they worshipping him?  It’s possible.  He is the most superb of beings.  When he returns to her, he tells her about them.  Then they laugh together, share the joke and a worm.  He doesn’t know about sorrow, he doesn’t know about much at all.  That’s what makes him so joyous.