His wise old body stood in the revealing window, his wrinkles illustrating how his body had withstood the test of time. He was wearing his stereotypical khaki-colored slacks and green golf shirt, complete with a hat given to him by his employer to whom he had so dearly given forty years of his working life.

The glare from the dim lighting and sunshine shone brightly off his head and white stubble grew from his face like crab grass. His movements were sporadic, his hands shaking as he dragged his body across the room. His eyes contained novels of his life during the Depression and of a seventeen-year-old boy fighting a man's war.

So many memories hid behind those glossy eyes; his wedding, holding his newborn daughter for the first time, and later, holding his first grandchild. The plainly painted walls and white curtains were not a prison to this once-free spirit. It's sad to see all of his fondest memories disappear one by one and at such an early age.

I called out to him, "Grandpa!"

He turned slowly, his body shaking from age, and he plainly asked, "Who are you?"