Descriptive Essay About Book Club

Decent Essays

Book Club Whenever I picture him, I imagine the nose I inherited, that favourite yellow polo, and strong shoulders. I see his hands flipping book pages, calloused fingers rough against soft paper. Yet, the grandfather I remember so clearly isn’t the figure I see before me. This body is small beneath the hospital blankets, skin as pale as the white walls. I’m supposed to be talking over the beeping of the machines swarming him; the nurses say it might be helpful. There’s only one question I want to hear, but it’s one he always asks and the words feel uncomfortable on my tongue; instead, I stay quiet and hold his still hand. A crisp wind blows against the tree outside the room’s window, sending a flurry of colourful leaves into the air. The group spirals to the ground, and only one bright red leaf is left clinging to the closest branch. Oh, Jules. I know it’s you; I can feel your hand on mine. You’re nervous—you’re only ever quiet when you’re nervous. More than anything, I want to sit up and reach out to you. I want to see you, the face that has my nose and the eyes that match mine, a green like summer trees. I wish I could. But, my shoulders feel weighted and my heart so weak. It took me a while to admit the latter, to ask for help to get it fixed. Now, they don’t know if they can do anything. The nurses tell our family that I’m listening but forget I can hear when they gossip outside my door. Please say something, Jules, Princess. I don’t know when I started calling him

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