Everyday I would walk with my dad to the smoke stacks.
He dressed up and I held his hand as we passed the shacks.
I never understood what was happening there.
I just knew that I should never ask if it was fair.
Each day we took the same path, it was intense.
I always saw the same boy sitting behind the fence.
Walking pass I would always smile, but he didn't care.
He never smiled back, he just looked at me with a blank stare.
I wanted to make friends with him so I snuck him things to eat.
After a few times he smiled and I knew he like the treat.
From there a small but powerful friendship did grow.
One in which we couldn't tell anyone, no one could know.
After a couple years we began to get close to one another.
Being an only child, he was the closest thing I had to a brother.
We were both only eight years old, we loved to joke and play.
I thought I did something wrong, he never showed up after that day.
I walked by the fence, but after a couple weeks he wouldn't be back.
I thought maybe he liked it more inside with the smoke stacks.
I never forgot him, my grandpa wrote in a diary as I read it under the lamp.
I don't know what happened to him, I like to think he walked out of the camp.