Soft footsteps come down the stairs and I turn to look in that direction. A wizened old man descends, each step taken with meticulous care and precision. I watched him with earnest intent, studying each contour and crack of his face as if they were roads of a map. His thread-like hair flew about in a disarray of white and grey, encouraged by a breeze through an open window. He stops to say good morning. It is my grandfather.

Although aged, the twinkle in his deep blue eyes could befriend a lion; his smile that of the same. Whenever I fall captive to his gaze, he ministers grace and humility to me without so much as speaking a word. He carries himself with such prowess and dignity that from a distance it is difficult to distinguish whether he is a young adult or truly a man with two generations beneath him. 

Despite his age, he is wont to shave every morning. In fact, I can’t recall seeing him with so much as a five o’clock shadow. His dress is modest, never overdone. He kisses my grandmother softly on the cheek and I am filled with joy and inspiration to see such amorous affection between the elderly two. We sit down to breakfast and I nod to my grandfather in obeisance.

After breakfast is consumed and we have done the dishes my grandfather assumes himself in his old rocking chair, one that could easily match, if not exceed his own age. His recumbent position caters to his comfort, and makes me wish for a chance to sit in that ever so inviting throne.

            His retentiveness still surprises me as he rattles off facts about airplanes, radios and other things I really had no desire to learn about, yet I sit there nonplussed. He sometimes recalls a small piece of his childhood, some significant and others not so much, but fascinating all the same. He has the ability to hold an audience enthralled for hours if he ever felt the need to do so.

My grandfather’s afternoons consist of two things. Soon after lunch he makes his way to his garden where he will spend an hour engaged in very fastidious gardening. From there he heads out on a walk. He enjoys company from time to time but he is a man of deep philosophy and enjoys his time alone to think aloud. Often he will come home and write down a short poem or a catchy phrase he put together while out and about.

Every night before bed, my grandfather has made it a habit to read a chapter or two of whatever book he is presently reading. He believes that reading is one of the best ways to gain knowledge. When I was young he would read out loud to me, vividly describing the world’s Tolkien and Twain painted with their literature. I was entranced.

Before I retire for the night, my grandfather always pulls me to his side and whispers “good night” in a tone so secretive and enigmatic I often feel as if he has bestowed me with confidential military operations, and that I must do my best to steward his words with utmost protection. I pat him on the back saying “goodnight grandpa” and to bed I go.