Smoldering

I watched as the cigarette burned down the paper...
I walked out of the house, which opened out into the run-down porch. My grandfather sat on the rickety wooden chair and looked ahead watching the tumble weeds roll by. He's sitting, leaned on his knees, his callassed hands resting on the wrinkles upon his face. His face wrinkled and leathery like an aged pair of worn boots. Crystal, crystal blue eyes. Like the icy water on a cold winter's day. His eyes reminiscing a past memory and moment. They told a story, his skin may show age, like a hard worked life, but his eyes have a lot of life in them. His thick mustache sat on his upper lip like a catapiller on a branch. The hump on his back arched, carrying the weight and sadness of his childhood. I watched as the cigarette burned down the paper, smolding as time wore on.