The only kind picture he ever had.
And he kept it in on the nightstand.
Not on the mantle,
Where the comings and goings of a house
Belonging to one of his stature,
Would see it. It wasn’t for the world.
Not in a drawer, locked away.
It wasn’t for God to look upon alone,
In the hidden places of the world,
Where only his eyes could penetrate.

He had never once thought of throwing it out,
As others who contemplate their mementos
Often do.
No.

In that picture was a smile on his face,
on the face of the stranger in it,
For a hundred years will make even an old friend
A new acquaintance.

He was a child in the picture,
He couldn’t even remember when it was taken.
But he was smiling, and it was dear to him.
It was the only kind picture he ever had.
He had not smiled since.

When he needed to harden his heart,
And gain new resolution for his life,
He would look at it, and remember.
He would remember he was human,
And in that moment of weakness,
The doubt of his cold crusade would be renewed
And he could get back to work.