Weary bones, and breath short, he sat upon the worn wood chair. He was of all things, sharp as a blade, and surely ageless in age. Skin leathery, patchy and bumped. Smells not always as nice as hot chocolate or such, yet always gave senses of love and sanctuary.
As was the old and the young, both tend to temper tantrums, and both had eyes that sparkled with teasing humour, again the designed designing of a story. Sometimes more truth than of imagination. For the tales of true, he the teller would gather will and once begun, began to relax. Brilliant colours of words wonderful, no longer struggled to be free, entranced and engaged. Of the stories that were of fancy flights, the most amazing adventures could almost be seen.
Life was different, this fact set the tone, as he continued. Not all were accepted, not all equal of creation. As memories manifested emotions, as vivid as simply looking at Christmas tree above a sea of gifts. From the eyes of youth. There was no hatred in such blissful history. The generations before that have come and gone. The lessons of life, all children knew.
He was a person of old. Life long and full. Love of his, and his love, here, as if always it was, not if as it was secret. A grand father of a grandfather, he and the lifelove, his love of life, assure you accurate and true it is, a man and a man. Strange and this was not so in his course of living. Normal normal was for all, all for normal and all agreed, as if in a mirage, no one was acted upon, treated bad.
A grandfather, sharing dreams and true events, raised a family with his livemate, his man of all men. Turn, as in now he as teacher, lessons teaching, to a new, brand new generation. Children of love. Families, different each to compare, but families still.
And such was, is the dream, true events. Children grow up, and know of nothing of hate. Because the ones that are old, can upon the minds of generations new, share of how it was, real of experiences, real of truth.