Thanks-giving Day was near. Sithum‟s class teacher asked her students to draw a picture of something for which they were thankful. Most of the class was considered economically disadvantaged, but still many would celebrate the holiday with traditional foods. And those were the subject of most of her students‟ art. Sithum was a different kind of boy. He had always remained loyal to his teacher. He was the teacher‟s true child of misery. One could only guess at the pain Sithum felt behind those sad eyes. Sithum‟spicture was different and he drew a hand – just an empty hand. His abstract image captured the imagination of his friends. Whose hand could it be? One child suggested it was the hand of a police officer, because the police protect and care for people. The teacher paused at Sithum‟s desk, bent down, and asked him whose hand it was. The little boy looked away and slowly muttered, “It‟s yours, teacher.”She recalled the times she had taken his hand and walked with him during her free time. How often had she said, „Take my hand, Sithum, we‟ll go outside. Or, let‟s do this together.‟ Sithum was most thankful for his teacher‟s hand