descriptive essay Mr. Quade Accelerated Junior Language Arts 8th period October 7, 2001 The Poker Game I was eleven in the summer of 1986. My family and I were spending our usual Sunday visit with Grandma and Grandpa. Grandma was ill. Because I was one of the older grandchildren, I was allowed to go into her room for a while. When entering the room, I had to stop and gather myself together. I entered the room. It was like a blistering inferno. I had to remove my jacket. I glance at the perimeter of the room. In the corner near the closet laid an old, tattered hanger. The material was discolored, and ripped. The decorations had long faded. The metal was disfigured and began to rust. I picked it up and hung my green and white windbreaker on it. I gingerly placed it in the cedar closet.
My attention shifted towards the bed.
Could this really be my Grandma? The room smelled of coffee, remnants from the family's long night. It was so strong I could almost taste the burnt, hardy, warm, liquid in my mouth. Her hair, flat and lifeless, was plastered against her shrunken head. Her eyes were sunken into her fleshless cranium. They were dark and murky like a foul and dingy lagoon. Grandma's tiny frail body went almost unnoticed in the large bed. A mere skeleton of a hand reached toward me and patted the seemingly endless cot. When I went to her, she allowed me to sit on the edge of the mattress. I took her weak, dry, and brittle hand, which was as light as a feather compared to mine. Her skin felt like old leather, discolored with age. I heard the quiet hiss of the oxygen tube snaking from her nose.