Laughter Is the Best Medicine

The day was September 24, the year was 2004. I looked over the letter a second time. Had I read it right? As I scanned its contents for the third time, words stuck out to me. "Grandpa was sick." I sank into my chair and wondered what to do. He and I hadn't gotten along well. After he moved to Chicago, he stopped writing to me. I was just a kid then, but it still hurt. Now I'm a man and decided to stop the hurt. I glanced up at my wife and she smiled back at me. I pulled a joke in an attempt to lighten the mood. I was never good at making jokes, but my she laughed anyways. The gloominess of the room left and these words kept bouncing around in my head. "Laughter is the best medicine."

I stood outside the door. It had a golden tint that almost matched the color of the leaves. The rest of the house was a dark grey with red shutters. I was still contemplating whether to go in or not. Finally, I placed my hand on the knob. I twisted my hand and pushed the door open. The inside was dark and smelled of sickness. I looked to the mantle and was surprised to see a picture of a younger me.
I smiled and walked upstairs. I entered his bedroom quietly and saw that he was awake. He noticed me and asked,"you lost, son?"