She was very small. Not small as in young, but as in tiny. Ten years old, but she just barely came up to my shoulder…and that was with the shoes on.

Brown hair framed her face, thin and wispy, just touching her shoulder blades. People said she was homely, but she wasn’t, not really. There was a look in her eyes that said, “I’m stronger than I look.”

Maybe it was this that inspired me to take her to the park that day. Her sweatshirt, several sizes to big, made her look even tinier than she was, and her thumbs poked out well-worn holes in the sleeves. The elementary school’s logo, barely visible, graced the front. Her jeans were held up with bandannas, tied together and knotted in the front. At first glance, she didn’t seem to care.

But when you looked closer, you saw the way her arms crossed against her chest, the way she let her hair fall into her face.

Maybe she was blocking other’s view of her. I knew from the start that she was one of the invisible ones.
Or maybe, her view of the world.