It was 1948. The year a little boy lost his way.

His first memory was of the day his mother took him to the local children’s shelter. She guided him to a large playroom area that was vacant but for some toys strewn on the floor. It was a sunny room on a sunny day. Everything seemed fresh and new to him.

He quietly sat down on the floor and began to play with some toy soldiers. He became immersed in his play until he heard his mother say, “I’m leaving now.”

He quickly jumped up and headed to her and grabbed her skirt and hugged her legs.

She stopped him and said, “You need to stay here.”

The little boy, who she called Swink, began to wail.

“Please, mommy, don’t leave me.”

She silently turned and headed toward the door.

Swink fell to the floor, slamming his hands and arms and feet against the concrete.

“Don’t leave me, mommy.”

He stopped crying for a second and looked up, hoping that she was walking back to him to cradle him in her arms and take him home.

She was gone.

Swink looked around the room to see no one, only the toy soldiers.

He sat up and started playing again with the toys, wailing as loud as he could.

He felt completely and utterly alone. No family. No friends. No hope.


To be continued…