I don’t know why people stare at me. They always look at me with sad or mean expressions. Those with mean expressions often call me “trash” or “filth.”  I just give a smirk back at those people, but I don’t like the people with a sad expression, so I don’t smile back. Those type always ask questions: “How old are you,” “Where are your parents,” “Why do you work so hard?” I don’t know how old I am… my parents left me… they feed me; thats all I ever say; the other miners taught me how to speak.
One day a man walked up to me, but when I looked up there was a click and a bright light in my eyes. He leaned over and handed me a piece of paper and said,” Here, it’s a picture of you,” smiled and walked away.  He is the only person that had ever smiled back at me. The “picture” he had handed me was of a little boy with black smudges on his cheeks and forehead. Hair hung in his face, and stuck out at odd angles under his hat, that looked too big for his small face. He was dressed in oversized, brown clothes that were all stringy at the end of its sleeves. His hands grabbed at the belt that held up his pants. His face looked scared.
“ Boy, whatcha’ got there?” one of the miners yelled.
“A man gave me a picture.”
“Lemme see,” his rough voice and hand reached out for it, “Yeah, it a picture. It’s a picture of you.”
I smiled as he handed it back, a picture of me. I’ll treasure it because the smiling man gave it to me.