Many years ago, my grandfather told a story about his men; his father, grandfather and great grandfather. Old man was ecstatically happy that day to commend how the genes of their good looks had inherited to his son. My father, according to him was the most handsome son possessing the paternal traits and thought the bequest could continue many generations hence. He brushed his wrinkled face in reminiscent of the previous men and wished he could die peacefully now that my father acquired the accumulated dashing looks.
But the old man lived another 25 years more ultimately to fall into a trance. The much praised about his family’s handsomeness felt crashing on him. His hopes vanished and even felt he made gaffes on the pride he held dearly about handsomeness. It was a plague, a spell that his agnostic fathers would not believe. He wished he had died a day ago. If he had, he would not have spat on the displeasing face of a child. “An imp,” he muttered and longed for death. That day I was born.
After twenty years from his death, I wrote a disclaimer notice at the end of his story:
Disclaimer: Whatever my grandfather said is utterly his own and does not merit any truth on the opinion of his grandson.
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