Henry glanced at the pie-wedge on his plate, and then stared the opposite empty chair.

The precious ember that occasionally sparked his life had returned home in time for the new school term.

He had fully intended to enjoy that last slice, but his appetite vanished when the door closed.

His cavern echoed with memories as thoughts of Robert played in his mind.

His fork began making a random pattern across the cinnamon surface.

It was just this morning they had laughed, determined to eat the whole the pumpkin pie, the Grandson's favourite.

The fork stopped.

Melancholy made Henry philosophical.

His life -- for that matter anyone's existence -- could be represented by a pie.

When first baked, it signified the future: full, exquisite, ready to be tasted.

Early years were akin to the first large partitions when great expectations are heartily consumed.

As maturity seasoned the soul, wedge-sizes decrease as material possessions become less important.

Now at his age, that remaining piece, with its potential of other tiny slivers, symbolized the continually shrinking timeline.

Gently -- tenderly - he returned the pock-marked slice to the pan.

Tears blurred his grandson's picture.

Henry wondered how many more slices he had left.