Upon opening up the patient's door, I saw the most remarkable face. His face could only be described as one of character. His face had the wisdom of the ages, it appeared as though he had been through a lot of tragedy. Mottled, wrinkled, a weathered, his face was a piece of aged parchment, a thousand years old. The potpourri a nurse had placed on the patient's table didn't really do much to combat the stench of cigarette smoke. Eyes veridian in colour stared at me without really seeing me, sending deep chills through my bones. Resting underneath a muddy brown pageboy cap was a white, tangled nest of candy-floss hair. He gestured me to take a seat, and I glanced down at his hands. They were easily the most aged part of his body. The withered and lined hands were similar to those of an ancient Egyptian mummy. Just looking at his hand, calloused and tabacco-stained, one would think that they were those of a dead man. Staring quizically at me for a moment, he poses the question, "Who are you, and why are you here?"
My eyes sparkling like a prism in the sun, welling up with tears, I answer him, "It's me Grandpa. Don't you remember?"
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