1 - Descriptive Essay: The Old Man

Old Man

        There is an old man. He affected me so much. I like that old man.

        My mom told me he has lived here, next to my house, since I was born. I saw him frequently, but I did not notice anything about him since I was still so young and what I care was all about playing. I started caring about things around me when I was an adolescent. I wanted to know more about that old man. I never spoke to him except to say “Hi” or “Good morning.” I knew nothing about him. But it started to change.

        He is skinny. He has a pointed face. His look always gets my sympathy, he gets my concern. Imagine an old man shorter and thinner than me: I am just 170cm tall with 55 kg. How much does he eat per day? He seems unhealthy; does he get enough food to eat? Looking at myself makes me feel shame: what am I complaining about when food looks awful?

He keeps wearing the same clothes every day, seems that is the only clothes he has. He is smelly sometimes, it seems he doesn’t clean up himself every day, or he does not change his clothes. I did ask my mom to let him in and take a proper shower. “No” was the reply.

        I heard him talking to himself sometimes. Where’s his wife? Is he alone? He always puts on a dusty green baseball cap, is that a gift from his wife? Under the baseball cap is his white and messy hair. Oh, he has a long beard as well. Did he just give up and left everything unshaved?

        He lives in a small broken house, with a tiny backyard. Strange as it may sound, there is a little tomb. Sitting next to the tomb, he stares at the tomb every evening. That should be his wife... He’s so lonely. I know it. Every time when I look into his limpid eyes, what I find is a lonely life. His eyes are telling me his story, a life full of sadness.

        He gets my sympathy. I gave him some of my unused old clothes. Though these are just little things, he kept saying “thank you” with a very soft voice. He hold my hands with his shaking, rough cold hands. I was so scared. I was afraid he is dying. He is so poor, but what can I do?

“I've been trying to do it right, I've been living a lonely life, you are the kindest kid I’ve ever seen. It’s more blessed to give than to receive. I believe you are the blessed one…” He spoke softly. I saw him dropping tears on his clothes. That scene kept appearing in my mind that night. I did not tell anyone, but I felt happy.

        I do not want him to die. I want to help him as much as I can. I do not want to see him lose hope. He is not alone. I’m not commending myself. I am just doing everything I can, as it’s more blessed to give than to receive.