His grandparents 2

Gosh and groan for this real place, these real spectres in their homes of bricks and mortar, hush in their home, the creak of wooden floorboards on carpeted stairs, brown benevolence in pasty-plated meals in the happy kitchen, shh and watch it darken down inside when no-one's there, this maison mordant in blue homeliness, careful in boring midnights, pillared with slimy slate and strong beams of oak reinforcing the musty loft, of home, this soft and bounteous home, with clashing doors and pittering steps and boxed-in, bricked in rooms holding borrowed, calamitous desire. Kitchen sinks, clattery devilish pipes, artifices of faucet and silvery h20s plashing enamel, the people inside inwardly collectivising in the drear, snoring, lumping, living out their lives till they die.
Hush, pshaw, pluf, the vagaries of breath are what constitute life inside. Utterly soft in breath, eyeballs quickly roaming up and down and round room, expurging like a bellows the puffs of rolling phew, slowly creeping, the cells and hairs of the body, metabolising, reinventing particles for fuel-like growth and thoughts of sleep.
Sigh now, humph in your righteousness, creak up from your chair, roam stiffly through to kitchen breathing from nostrils, all softly, achingly alive, amidst perpetual rolls of memory, and though their lives are more or less over, the old, still they're at the centre with their souls not yet withered, but ripe, bright with superior understanding, all full of a perfect, still love.
And yet now, in their eyes, see them, they're all full of hush, a kind of hushing sorrow, especially when asleep they are already dead in a warm, embittered hibernation. All the crags of their skin, the endless, duplicitous wrinkles, the tired-out old skin of knuckly hands, enwrapped and mummified, prepared already, in the heart of life, for death. They are as if turned to stone, statues of grief already in their age. Awaiting with sour, bedevilled courage the imminent grave. Hush now they're asleep.