There is an old statue of a boy at my grandparents' house- it's feet bare, a jacket hanging loosely over only one arm, a ratted hat, pants cut off jaggedly at the shins, and through the tattered, pioneer gettup, he still holds a smile. The smile never frayed over the years of weather, mold, and the loss of its dear, old right hand. He chugs along with the smile like a real trooper. I always looked at it from time to time, a sense of hope from the statue's perseverance washing over me. That was until that night- the night when my life crumbled and I began to realize that it was a statue with no feelings, the smile permanently chizled upon his face with no remorse.