Personal Narrative: My Relationship With My Grandfather

He dragged on unfiltered Camels and chewed Starr until the day he was put in hospice. The drinking left a scar on his liver from 21 years ago. The pale figure breathed in and out, raspy and uneven. The sickly husk was what was left of my grandfather. His veins sickly yellow like the paint on the walls and the smell of stale institution became a reminder of the condition he was every time i visited. Reflecting, I remember this period of time as a cloud of anger, rage for my grandfather’s lack of caring for himself. But i learned through this that looking back in anger on the past only just sours my relationship with him and keeps the negativity in my thoughts. This helped me through this time to better understand his passing. It's a sweltering

It's a cloudy day that is casting shadows onto the hospice. Walking towards the corner room, i notice the faces of the nurses seem gloomy. Someone died a couple rooms away from my Grandfather. “Not today for him i guess”. Only slightly shocked by the morbidity of my words i continue the walk towards the dwelling. My mother swings open the heavy industrial door and it pushes the stale air out of the room. The sheets look fresh and the flowers are kept alive, a balloon slightly deflated hangs limply in the air. The frail figure in the bed has seem to agree to keep giving the minimum signs of life. The breathing tube has tiny movements across his chest. His eyes register with me, but there is no life in them. He already doesn't remember who we are, but i tell him i'm Alex your grandson. No response, just a blank understanding of the person standing in front of him. We stay a little longer and decide to head

It was not his house but it was place he would always tell me we would go fishing one day. I liked the idea, charmed by the retro statement of going down to a fishing hole and casting a line. He was a skinny man, always wearing a short sleeved button down shirt with the smell of aftershave,moth balls, and stale tobacco. It was a comforting smell, one that i won't forget. Forgetting this positivity just leads me to be angry and not letting go of it. The Longhorn parking lot was half empty, walking back the car. My dad walks out, his phone loosely hanging in his hand. The news finally reached us, he past about 5:30 on that same summer Sunday afternoon. I had only just seen him an hour before. I don't cry, my 12 year old pride was too delicate to expose in front of strangers. Only in the car I start to tear up, filling with hybrid mix of sadness and anger. I was filled with hate for him leaving so soon. I was filled with hate because he didn't take care of himself. I was filled with hate because we couldn't go fishing. The next 6 months were hard, but one day listening to a song the lyric “Don't look back in anger” (Noel Gallagher) stuck with me. The ignorance to his pain only added to my negativity. Anger only serves to divide us, but with a positive outlook on the past one can begin to remember the good out of our