My grandfather insists on getting me coffee. He is ninety-two years old, but he 1 my help and rolls his wheelchair over to the 2 in the corner, filling a cup with boiling black 3.
His room at the nursing home is 4, nothing more than a bed and a bathroom. His walls are covered in 5 of his six children and nineteen grandchildren. I 6 my own face, seven years old and covered in chocolate. When I 7 the photo, he laughs. “You were the fattest little kid. Your mom was so 8.”
I tell him that I'm here for a piece for my journalism class, that the assignment is to 9 a family member and that I pick him because he has the best 10. This gets a small, almost childlike smile. He is proud of being 11. My grandfather has many fine 12, but wisdom is not one of them.
I ask about his experience in the war. He makes a face, 13 on the wheels of his chair as he thinks. “Have I told you about Noel?” I say no. I remember 14 the name, maybe fifteen years ago. He 15 me a lot, which are so 16 that it makes me all the more excited to visit him. Noel was Grandpa's best friend. As Grandpa talks about him, his eyes glaze a little and his mouth lifts up at the corner. You can see in his 17 that they are the kind of friends whose relationship 18 an admirable, platonic（柏拉图式的）sort of love affair.
This is the story I get today in this dirty and messy bedroom with only one table and it lives up to those of my 19. I think, suddenly, that he has just 20 an amount of time unimaginable to me. I think, the rest of my life, the stories I will live, are unimaginable to him.
