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My Grandfather's books
You could find books everywhere. Hidden in the living room between couches, deep down in the drawers of his room or laying on the kitchen counter. That’s how I’ve always identified my grandfather’s home, a huge yard in the back of a precious house, which was mainly made up of books, one could say. He’s got his own library, at the very end of the main hallway you can find a small, silent room, with his favorite couch on the middle looking out the window directly into the garden, a piano next to the wall, and, needless to say; books everywhere, filling the room with that special smell old books have. I can still remember how I would sit besides him in the floor when I was younger, listening to my grandfather read his favorite poems out loud. My grandfather is a very intelligent man, one of the greatest persons I’ve ever met. He’s tall and serious, he doesn’t seem the type of person that you could imagine would have a great taste in literature and a soft heart for classic poetry. Still, he did, and he always made sure to share his love for literature with me. I would see my grandfather in the living room with the rest of the family, sitting still, making no comment, with an occasional grin on his face. But later at noon I would quietly enter library and listen to him read a little bit about everything, laughing while reading some novels, quietly thinking when it came to history books, or reading and looking at me with kind eyes when it came to love poems that reminded him of my grandmother. Now that I’m older, I always thank my love for literature to my grandfather, who I occasionally read my stories to, and smile at the fond memory he was kind enough to give me, meaningful moments that I enjoyed for years and will cherish for the rest of my life.
