Desctription Old Man

He's a beautiful piece of art and wisdom. There is a look of pain and joy mixed within his sunken eyes. I can see his past: the wars he's faught, the friends he's lost, and his beautiful wife dancing. His skin is pale and washed, as the hours indoors have faded the colour. The skin seems to be melting off him, as gravity is winning the battle. I can still, however, see the scars on his face from those horrible times overseas.. Those times burn within him. I am reminded of this every time a loud noise is made- for he twitches slightly and shouts. Even this amount of effort knocks the wind out of him. He walks in such a graceful way- slow as a turtle, but flowing and smooth. He is in pain as he walks, but keeps his pride with a feirce, unchanging, stern look painted on his face. I know it hurts, for his hands are tightly wrapped around the walker's handlebars; his knuckles turn ghostly white from the amount of pressure and squeezes. I always ask to aid him, but he replys in a soft but direct voice, "no." I love his voice, it is breathy and gravely, but very determined. He is a smoker, killing his lungs slowly, and his vocal chords show it. He will never lose that residued scent of cigar smoke. But his cigars are sweet and pleasant to smell. I miss that smell. I miss that man. I will forever miss my grand-daddy. -Erin B