My+Old+Person

My Old Person

William James Donahue was 82 when he passed away. He lived in my street but nobody really knew him. He used to be a member of the garden club that my mother was involved in but after his wife died, he barely left the house. He was a mysterious man, strange, different. He was in the war so his soft kind face had horrible, ugly scars on it. When he walked, he limped. A year ago, he committed suicide. It was the middle of the night and the street was buzzing. There were several Police cars, an Ambulance and everyone was outside trying to find out what was happening. Dad went out but Mum made Cassie and I stay inside. Cassie was six at the time so she was extremely frightened and Mum told me I had to be brave even if I was scared, just for Cassie. Dad told me that Mr Donahue had fallen over going to the bathroom in the night, but I didn’t believe him.

It was a cold winter day, I was at the shop getting some milk for Mum. I walked into him when I turned the corner. I looked into his shopping basket which held black liquorice, The Daily Newspaper and tea bags. He offered me some liquorice and we walked back to my house together. He didn’t talk much but he told me lots. He was extremely tall with soft features. His white hair was balding, his blue eyes were deep, holding years of wisdom and his wrinkled skin was warm, despite the scars. He wore similar clothing most of the time and he kept his house and himself looking immaculate and perfect. He told me about his family, about his grandchildren and his children but he never mentioned their names. I didn’t want to ask. He asked me about school and what my favorite subject was. It was awkward talking to him at first but it got easier the more we talked. We decided that we would meet up more often and that was the start of our friendship.

We started meeting up at his house once a week after school. We played board games like Monopoly and Scrabble. Slowly I started visiting him more and more. I began seeing him almost everyday. He told me stories about the war, about his daughters, about his wife. One day we were sitting outside on the deck chairs in the sun. He said that his daughter had been living in London for the past four years with her husband and three children and his other daughter had been living in Australia for the past six years with her family. He told me he had never seen his grandchildren because he did not get along with his children and thats why he loved spending time with me.

Three days later, he died. My heart broke. I couldn’t believe it. At his funeral, I was meant to speak, but before I even got on stage, I couldn’t think of anything because nothing could describe this wonderful man or our friendship.

I then realised that Will had become, My Best Friend.