Every time I walked into my Nana and Grandads retiring home my granddads existence always encaptured my attention. He lay there in his reliable, green lazy boy and welcomed me in as his glasses sat effortlessly on his rigid nose. With the racing pages in his aged hands, his glistening, blue eyes were set on the wide screen T.V which was providing my Granddad with the daily races. Occasionally, he would pull himself up and hobble over to the phone to bet on a horse with his betting number we all knew so well.
While I sat at the end of the dinner table completing my homework, Grandad would sit at the opposite end and distract me with games meant for little kids as if he wanted me to stay young, but for me, they never got old. I’d gaze over and find my Grandad in a pair of his favourite, blue workpants with small paint specs splattered across them and a white, paper thin singlet that barely covered his stomach.
Every time I walk into my Nana and Grandads retiring home I imagine my loving Grandad laying there in his beloved green lazy boy. My imagination is wiped away like dead bugs on a windscreen, as I see a stiff, black, leather recliner chair perched in the corner of the newly refurbished room which once, Grandad had lived his life in, but now I’m not so certain. As I walk in to the kitchen, I imagine my granddad over the boiling stove assembling new creations with our secret recipe, for me to try.
It feels as if he’s just on an extended holiday or he’s hiding in the laundry for us to open the door so he could jump out and frighten us. I know my Grandad isn’t going to physically be sitting in his new lazy boy, but I imagine him arranged there, peering over his large, loveable tummy just waiting patiently for someone to turn the T.V onto channel 8.
While I sat at the end of the dinner table completing my homework, Grandad would sit at the opposite end and distract me with games meant for little kids as if he wanted me to stay young, but for me, they never got old. I’d gaze over and find my Grandad in a pair of his favourite, blue workpants with small paint specs splattered across them and a white, paper thin singlet that barely covered his stomach.
Every time I walk into my Nana and Grandads retiring home I imagine my loving Grandad laying there in his beloved green lazy boy. My imagination is wiped away like dead bugs on a windscreen, as I see a stiff, black, leather recliner chair perched in the corner of the newly refurbished room which once, Grandad had lived his life in, but now I’m not so certain. As I walk in to the kitchen, I imagine my granddad over the boiling stove assembling new creations with our secret recipe, for me to try.
It feels as if he’s just on an extended holiday or he’s hiding in the laundry for us to open the door so he could jump out and frighten us. I know my Grandad isn’t going to physically be sitting in his new lazy boy, but I imagine him arranged there, peering over his large, loveable tummy just waiting patiently for someone to turn the T.V onto channel 8.
Written by my sister; I feel the same.
The past couple of weeks has consisted of only 
