Memorable Experience
My Memorable Experience
"I have something to tell you..." There was a pause, her tone was worrying. "It's your grandfather, he's passed away." I was stunned: the grandfather who had always been there for me was no longer there. I could feel someone grinding their fist through my stomach; the pain was unbearable. For the first time ever I was lost for words. Tears started to form in my eyes. I could not contain my emotion. All my memories of my grandfather seemed to rush through my head as I sat in my room isolated from the rest of the world.
I had been asked to write a speech for the funeral; it seemed a daunting task at first but as my emotions took over, i found I was able to express exactly what I was feeling. The speech read:
My grandfather was a man of few words who enjoyed the simple pleasures of life: a bet on the horses and the odd bit of chocolate. I can still taste the Polos that he would give me whenever I came to see him and as I stand here before you today, I know that every-time I open a pack of Polos, my grandfather will always be in the back of my mind.
As a younger child, he would often take me to work with him, down to the school or Letham's farm where he would teach me about birds' eggs, crops and the types of plants and flowers. Pleasure was found in the simple things that I (and the rest of my brothers and sisters) did with him and his country life.
I would often go into the back door at Mitchell Avenue where my granddad worked to a familiar scene and the smell of 'Old Holborn' lingering in the air. The smell of warm pastry hung in the air as my nana would always be baking and listening to Radio Two and preparing granddad's lunch for when he came in from work. We thought they were infallible and would always be there; now their bungalow stands empty as a shell.
The last time I saw my grandfather, he was sitting up in his hospital chair wearing his floral shirt, looking as eccentric as Spike Milligan and with a familiar
"I have something to tell you..." There was a pause, her tone was worrying. "It's your grandfather, he's passed away." I was stunned: the grandfather who had always been there for me was no longer there. I could feel someone grinding their fist through my stomach; the pain was unbearable. For the first time ever I was lost for words. Tears started to form in my eyes. I could not contain my emotion. All my memories of my grandfather seemed to rush through my head as I sat in my room isolated from the rest of the world.
I had been asked to write a speech for the funeral; it seemed a daunting task at first but as my emotions took over, i found I was able to express exactly what I was feeling. The speech read:
My grandfather was a man of few words who enjoyed the simple pleasures of life: a bet on the horses and the odd bit of chocolate. I can still taste the Polos that he would give me whenever I came to see him and as I stand here before you today, I know that every-time I open a pack of Polos, my grandfather will always be in the back of my mind.
As a younger child, he would often take me to work with him, down to the school or Letham's farm where he would teach me about birds' eggs, crops and the types of plants and flowers. Pleasure was found in the simple things that I (and the rest of my brothers and sisters) did with him and his country life.
I would often go into the back door at Mitchell Avenue where my granddad worked to a familiar scene and the smell of 'Old Holborn' lingering in the air. The smell of warm pastry hung in the air as my nana would always be baking and listening to Radio Two and preparing granddad's lunch for when he came in from work. We thought they were infallible and would always be there; now their bungalow stands empty as a shell.
The last time I saw my grandfather, he was sitting up in his hospital chair wearing his floral shirt, looking as eccentric as Spike Milligan and with a familiar