It’s Sunday morning and we’re going to the Old People’s Home again. My grandmother and my aunt live there. She’s not my real aunt, just someone my mother called aunt when she was a kid, so I inherited her. Neither one of them knows who we are anymore so I really don’t get why we go every week. I’d rather be playing video games.
The Old People’s Home—or the OPH as I call it—is a really long drive. Mom says it’s not easy to find a nice OPH.
Grandma’s OPH smells like cotton candy and barf but I like the walls. They’re blue and one whole hallway is covered in pictures the OPs painted. Just like when our teachers post schoolwork to impress our parents.
Someone told us Mr. Kirby, who’s always sitting in his wheelchair in the lobby, used to be a famous painter. I checked the walls for the picture he painted. To be honest, it wasn’t very good.
Mom says it’s sad he lost his talent.
Grandma used to be a good baker. My aunt was a singer in a jazz band—whatever that is—and Mr. Kirby… well, I already told you about Mr. Kirby.
I hope I never live in an OPH.
I don’t want to make my grandson mad every Sunday when his mom says he has to come visit me.
Or sad when he remembers how I used to tell funny stories and give him a twenty when he was going to the movies with his best friend Nick.
Or scared because he knows I’m going to die.
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