Al Kafirun

There was a grandfather, the patriarch of a large family of sons. One of his least sons fathered a daughter; she would come to be most precious to the old man. In the first 10 years of her life, they developed a great bond. She was easily amused by his character. Small gestures endeared him to her and her candid affection-the undeniable love of a child-sustained him. He would make cigar smoke billow from his ears and she would laugh. He would bounce her on his knee and she would laugh. He would pretend to steal her nose and after only a brief protest he would return it. But even then, as she loved him for the silver hairs in his nose and the steadiness of his breath as he napped in his big chair, she would recoil from many of his habits. The severe expression on his brow concerned her from the first. She would cover her ears when he would yell at the people on TV. She would hide when he and her father would engage in heated arguments. And she would cry when the warm, strong man that so often held her near his heart would disappear, and a bitter cold man unfamiliar and often unwelcome in this young-mans’ world would replace him. In time she could no longer distinguish between the two, and became cold. Nothing he could do lightened her spirit. Finally, he appealed to her directly, respecting her age. I have lost you to the woman you’ve become, how can I recover your love and loyalty. No longer free to speak as a child she assured him that he would always have her love. But reluctantly, without prelude, she began to name the tally of troubling habits he had acquired and she had gradually become aware of. Stop smoking, she told him. The cigar smoke smells foul and turns your teeth brown and shortens your breath and life. Stop drinking, the whisky makes your words slow and your steps clumsy. Stop cursing, she told him, the words are ugly in your mouth and set my teeth to grinding. Stop fighting with my father, you are both well into old age and should know by now how to speak with respect. Don’t throw loose change at the ducks at the park; don’t go hunting, either. In his mind, the grandfather couldn’t conceive of an existence without his amusements. Throughout his life he rallied against the will of his mother, his now deceased wife and always his better sense. But now he could not bear to defy the daughter of his son. He didn’t wish to change because he understood her grievances, or because his will was weak. He could have easily refused, dismissing her desires as the foolishness of a child. He was sure her trust and adoration would not diminish regardless of his vanity. He knew she would never ask him to change so that he would no longer be the man he was. He trusted her. He could tell her capacity for mercy and love while young and simple was stronger and burned hotter than his own. While his mouth wanted to object his heart did not hesitate to concede. As an old man few of his friends survived. The ones that had claimed to no longer recognize the man that stood before them. Was this the boy who fought it two wars? The young man who had romanced so many women? The father and husband who worked the same job for so long to feed his family? The man who ate of life with both hands even as his mouth was full? The old man said and truly believed himself that he was more the man he was in spirit then than he ever was before. Though it was not his will that guided his present life, he followed with love and without remark the child that led him by the hand. He persisted through old age not for himself, no longer for himself, but for the least of his children.

Armchair dissident

Erm, I don't get it...

Unless it's the lack of line breaks - that's quite funny.