Who Is That Man?
Patrick, Age 11, Armstrong, BC

When I walked to the supermarket yesterday I stumbled into an elderly, homeless man. He looked up to me with diamond clear eyes. I stared back at him. His body was covered with rotten orange peels, candy wrappers, and dirt. The bags under his eyes were as black as my bike tires, his hair as white as my bed spread. I couldn't help but notice his smell. I stepped in a little closer to him. His hair smelled like gas and paint, it made me choke. His breath smelled worse, it was as if he had just drank some sewage water. I could tell he was hungry and depressed. I told him I was sorry I didn't have anything on me. He said that was fine, but I knew he was disappointed. His voice was very muffled, it sounded like my dad getting his Ford truck started. His voice was also filled with anger, anger at the world for what it had done to him.

I brushed his face, it was as smooth as a baby's bottom, except for the odd clump of dirt on it. It felt like his hair had been shampooed with Olive Oil. He had a long, dingy trenchcoat covering his slim figure. I left him there walking all the way to the supermarket still dumfounded on who he was. Although, he had an odd resemblance to my late grandfather.

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