Stale yellow teeth spaced between crookedly straight gaps, constantly inspected with your little finger for forgotten bits of your last meal. Thinning grey-brown hair combed every morning with dignity, and a permanent scowl, which twists into a grin at the most unexpected moments. The Bulldog is what they used to call you, though I never found out why. Old age took your strength and unassuming dignity with which young men relieve themselves free of painful swollen prostates. Beneath your sun-blotched skin and flesh-colored hearing aids, You're the same. Ready to introduce anyone who gives your family the wrong look to the glory of Heaven, or the fire of Hades With your ******* fists. "A gem" is what grandma always called you. As though you were the most precious object in her life. I look at you and see your hunch-backed figure twisted with time and arthritis. So un-gemlike. Yet a gem, just like she said.