The other day, I saw a picture in a magazine of a young boy
under the heading “MISSING.” Usually—though
I’m sorry to say it—I don’t pay very much attention to these advertisements,
but this picture caught my eye. It was
tinted faintly yellowish, and the boy’s hairstyle was odd. I realized why a moment later, when I saw the
photo next to it of the boy artificially aged to what he would look like
today. The boy has been missing since
1984.
How sad,
and how sweet. For twenty-eight years
this family has been missing one of their own, and still they haven’t given
up. They must know the chances of ever
finding him, and even if they did there would be so many problems to cope with—if
he’s alive, by now he has his own life, his own family. He could be anywhere in the world, maybe not
even knowing or wanting to know the family he was taken from. But still they keep searching, keep hoping. To me, that shows a marvelous strength of
heart. I applaud them, and I hope for a
happy ending to their search, as impossible as it may seem.
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