Nursing Home-Personal Narrative

I am Philip Devlin, age 16, and I have only been to one funeral, my Aunt Frances. Every year I’d see her as many times as you can count on your hand. Frances lived in a nursing home, the nursing home was in Framingham, one of the neighboring towns to Wellesley, where I live. Framingham a 5 minute drive from my home. I regret not seeing her more, I regret not caring enough for her, I regret not going to the movies and sharing a buttery popcorn with her. Whenever I saw her I went into auto-pilot mode. With the push of a button, poof like it never happened. I do remember before she was in the nursing home, she had a townhouse, around the time when I was in elementary school. I was playing for my town soccer team, we just had a game just around

We walked down the stairs and heading outside to the parking lot. The town house complex had 10 houses all identical ,side by side, with a parking lot out front. We proceed to walked outside and started calling for the cat. As we walked the pavement felt rough and cracked, fragile as glass, one wrong step would send you plummeting to the earth 's core. To keep from getting caught up in the boredom induced paranorma, I walked around looking at the various cars, looking in awe at the cars my dad found me. The cat was gone, we had to go tell Frances. She didn’t look sad, she just had this blank, unfazed, expression on her face, like she knew from the start their wasn’t any hope. called it a day, and went home. Her losing the cat has been a memory that has been stuck on repeat for a while now whenever I think of her. Other memories include us sitting in her nursing home room talking about things that I could relate to, that I didn’t want to enough to make more than a sentence in response. If only I was older, I would have understood why my dad wanted me to see her

I can now take advantage of the knowledge I gained from Frances and use it towards working on my relationship with my Grandpa Joe. My Grandpa, is is in his late 80’s and this realisation was so crucial for not only me but to him as well. My grandpa had a wife who passed away at a young age, when my father was young. He didn’t have much money to live off and had to manage his son’s life without anybody to help him financially or mentally. If I were in his shoe’s I would have broken in two, the amount of stress from working your ass off to make enough to pay for rent, clothing, food, basic essentials of living for not only you but your son as well. My mind would have exploded from stress. The least I can do is visit him, thank him for all he has done for me and my dad. I want to go thank him but I feel so guilty because he doesn’t get my visitors, other than my father. He is living in the same nursing home as Frances did, not a far drive but yet I can’t seem to make the time to see him. I look up to my father, he works all day just like his father did, finds time to see his father. Similar to how my grandpa and my dad relationship was, my grandfather would work relentlessly, and some how manage to time to see his