Descriptive Essay About My Grandfather

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Grandad My grandfather was a disorganized workaholic, a good listener, and a brave man. He was, according to one of his students, “… the Indiana Jones of linguistics.” I love that man because of what I have learned about him. I knew my grandfather when he was sick, but like many Parkinson’s patients, he had been changed by his illness, so when I knew him, he seemed more like a moving body than a person. When I was born, his sense of direction had already left, his muscles had already started to stiffen, and his coping abilities had eroded considerably.
He died when I was about eight years old, so I only have two memories of him. In my first memory, Grandad stands by the bookshelf and asks if he can read a book to me. I respond, “No, thank you.” In the other, Grandad and I are in a nursing home, moving side by side through a hall that leads into a bright room with large windows. He is being pushed in a wheelchair. I have one more memory that involves a form of his presence. In it, he is dead: Grandad’s coffin is sitting at the front of a pavilion as soldiers fold the American flag into a triangle for my grandmother. My mother is crying because he is gone. I understand why she is crying, but I do not like it: this is the first time that I have seen her cry. I do not mind it though; she needs time, that is all. Personally, I do not care that this old, slow, and completely boring man has left. I can live without him. As I grow older, I start to regret. My

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