My grandfather was a foolish old codger. By the time I knew him all he could do was rock back and forth in his rickety old rocking chair, smoke his pipe and talk through the drool that dripped down his lips from his toothless gums. When he finally died I got his cane. That cane was the only part of him I actually liked. He always went on about the days that he was at war, or the childhood he spent running barefoot through the fields on his father's estate, but you could barely understand a word he said. It was like his tongue didn’t work right; it just lolled around in his mouth. I wasn’t allowed to shout at him, “ GRANDPA YOU CROTCHETY OLD COOT. NO ONE CARES WHAT YOU SAY. EVERYONE IS JUST BEING NICE TO YOU BECAUSE THEY THINK YOU’RE GOING TO DIE.” But my mother didn’t want me to do that because it would be rude and maybe would have killed him sooner. I should have just done it anyway. It would’ve done everyone a favor.