I’m at home. The sun shines brightly in my face. I sit on the back porch by the Sports sec­tion of the newspaper which is only saved from blowing away by two scuffed-up, supposed-to-be church shoes. I lean on a box of shoe cleaning materials and wait for my mom to come outside with the shoe polish. I can smell the shoe polish as soon as she comes outside, especially when I open the box.

My grandpa comes out of the house wearing overalls, a crisp checkered shirt, and holding his cane like it is the only thing between the world he knows and his world to come. He sits down on one of the chairs in the patio set and tells me about how he used the shoebox often when he was my age. Every time the wind blows I receive a whiff of Irish Spring soap.

Two days later my grandpa is in the hospital. My family sits down to figure out what to give him just in case he “lets go of the cane.” We finally decide on his favorite dessert—vanilla pound cake. We bake and put our hearts into it. We send it to him in the hospital. The next day we receive a thank you card written by my grandfather’s attending nurse who had to write it for him. He only manages to scrawl a quick signature and an “I U” sign. Five days later my grandpa let go of his cane.

By Jonothon, 7th grade
Photob by anneh632 via Flickr

 

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