He is 87 years old.

Like any man this age, time has long since began to take it's toll.
He has white, wispy hair that is combed to the back of his head. It is thin, but he is not bald (much to his pleasure). His brown eyes are placed directly below his bushy white eyebrows. And though they hide behind thick bifocals, life and energy radiates from them. His eyes are quick to laughter; practically singing their amusement when regaled with an amusing scene or anecdote.

His ears are the most obvious signs of his age. Looped around each ear is a hearing aid. Although not terribly garish, they are obvious enough to make the people around him speak up. Oftentimes during conversation, one will see him reach for one ear in an attempt to control the volume. He is rarely bored by conversation, but when he is, the solution is simple. He turns them off. His wife used to accuse him of doing this intentionally whenever he neglected to take out the garbage or mow the lawn.

His nose and mouth are offset by the infinite amount of creases and wrinkles that line his face. Laughter, anger, sorrow. All etched permanently on his face and all telling a different story. And his wrinkles mirror his stories: both are too plentiful to count.

Despite his mind being as sharp as a tack, his body has lost it's edge. Muscular arms and legs have given way to lean and gangly appendages. His core has softened somewhat around the middle, giving him an appropriate pear shape.

Nothing functions the way it used to either. He was once dexterous on his feet. Now he shuffles and is prone to missing a step or two.
His breathing is labored as well. Periodically throughout the day, he ventures into a quiet room in order to use his breathing machine. Once right as he wakes, once before lunch, once mid-afternoon, once before retiring. The low hum of the machine coupled with the raspy intake of his breath is a clear "Do Not Disturb" sign.

Perhaps the least noticeable physical characteristic about this man is one of his fingers.
The ring finger of his left hand.
Some accident in his youth permanently bestowed upon him this abnormality: his finger no longer bends straight out. It is always crooked, bent to the right, at the last knuckle.
Many years ago, this finger intrigued a little girl. She used to sit on his lap and play with it. She tried to straighten it out, as though his finger could be healed simply by the touch of her insistent little hands.
"Does it hurt?" She genuinely cared about the answer.
"Oh no, no dear. It doesn't hurt."
Thus satisfied with the response, the girl resumed her game while perched upon the old man's knees.