Hillary wrote this for her English class...
The Last Race
“Ready, set, go!” my grandpa yelled huskily as he took off down the hill, wheelchair flying. “Are you sure this is the best idea?” I mumbled doubtfully as I began to inch down the hill. “How else are we going to get there?” he chuckled, a wry smile spread across his face as he took in the scenery. “I say we have Garfield pull the chairs next time,” Grandave said about the cat that he had grown to love. As I sat in the old wheelchair and stared at the large, steep and rocky dirt hill in front of me, I was at first skeptical, but when I saw the excited look on my grandfather’s face all of my doubts vanished. “Grandave” is not the best title for Dave; he is only fifty-two and acts younger, but he has always been a grandpa-like figure to me. He is the person who first took me fishing and hiking. He loves every aspect of nature, especially his garden, which he cares for with tenderness that contradicts his physical appearance. As we passed by stables, and chickens quickly jumped out of our way, I suddenly realized that this could be my last trip spent with Grandave. “Come on! You can go faster than that!” he said in his gruff voice, his words still filled with sincerity, as his wiry brown beard and checkered hunting shirt blew in the cool Pennsylvania breeze like a flag. Staying true to his tough inner mountain man, he never let his sickness stop him and he continued to try to keep me entertained, even when he was confined to a wheelchair. As he zoomed down the hill, as carefree as a young child enjoying the fresh air, the lines of worry and sadness disappeared from his face as they were replaced by a wide, bright smile. “I’m going to win!” he called through the whistling wind as he neared the bottom of the hill.“I know you will,” I said with a smile. I knew that he was not just referring to the race.