Personal Writing: My Grandfather For as long as I can remember, my grandfather has always been there for me. He was holding my hand when I took my first step. I can imagine how it must have looked, my tiny hand invisible in his large grasp, for the first time. As years begin to pass by, I decided that I wanted to play softball. Grandfather was the first to say that he wanted to teach me. Holding the bat in my hand, he stood behind me and placed his hands over mine to guide me through the swing. His hands didn’t cover as much of mine this time. What I remember most about my grandfather are his hands. His hands were worn and gnarled, like the roots of an old tree. The