Charlie M. is my grandpa; he is 88 years old. He cannot read; he can't write his name, but he laid bricks better than any man on his job. He was married to my grandmother, Ella Mae, but she died before I was born. Sadly, she left him all alone, and he didn't remarry. Today, with my grandpa being an elderly man, occasionally I stay with him at his house. As I stay at my grandpa's house, I wonder and ponder many thoughts about him. I mostly ponder the wrinkles on his face. I realize, old age is not the cause of his wrinkles. Every wrinkle on his face has a story behind it, I believe. And, his wrinkles run deep like a river. Some are chiseled into his face, and I find myself staring at them for long periods of time. I see the sad, tragic wrinkle in his face that formed when he had to bury his wife. There is a wrinkle from when he had to bury three of his children.
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