As I crouch in the La-Z-Boy my grandad once sat on, I picture the distinctive tufts of grey hair that covered his wrinkly forehead. I remember his deeply wounded arms and slender chicken legs. His flushed cheeks and droopy smile were a sign that he wasn’t having a good time.
His soft ears jiggled like jelly every time he moved. His hazel eyes stared at me as wire-like veins protruded from his saggy neck. The pitch black jersey he wore was the colour of the night.
The baggy sleeves led to a grey and black upside-down wristwatch. He dragged his left arm up to the purple bags that darkened every day and gazed hopelessly at the time on his watch.
After a while, he reached for the steaming bowl of hot chicken noodle soup. His mouth opened slowly and made a loud slurp before it shut again.
