Fantastic Phil Bolsta.
Fantastic memory of his Grandfather.
It was the day after Christmas, 1971. I was fourteen and my sister, Cyn, was fifteen. Our family was at the Vets Hospital visiting Grampo, my dad’s father, who had spiraled into dementia after undergoing double-cataract surgery months earlier.
Our beloved Grampo was sitting in a wheelchair in his room, staring vacantly ahead. My sister and I were sitting patiently on his bed, waiting to go home. It had been a long time since Grampo had recognized any of us or demonstrated that any trace of the Grampo we knew and loved was still “in there.”
Suddenly, Grampo turned to look at Cyn and me . . .
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