The Dime Museum

Were it not for the time and the place perhaps a happier life could have been conceived, but it could never be. Born years ago into a family that was relatively well to-do had doomed him from conception. They didn’t need the money from his sale, and that was a good thing. Being only 15 months of age he brought barely more than a weeks pay, as his survival was not guaranteed. Wrapped in a blanket and carried off to the dime museum he is left to the care of his fellows, and care for him they do.

At three years of age he speaks for the first time, and although the woman that he called his “mama” was no relation, he loved her and she loved him in return. He tried often to walk, moving limbs that would never carry him, and his “mama” cried by his bed at night, a broken heart over a broken boy.

At the age of 8 he had deteriorated, and even though he could speak a few more words, his body was failing him. His “mama” never knew cold like she felt that day by his grave in the back lot of the dime museum.

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