"Sometimes we put up walls. Not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to knock them down."

I ran into a seventh grade student at Amasango last weekend. Simphiwe, a short boy with a light complexion, and some pretty serious anger management issues has never been all that close to me. We usually get along, but that's about the extent of our relationship.

I was walking with a couple shelter guys down High Street with my comforter, a couple pillows and a backpack making my way to Eluxolweni.

Simphiwe came up to me, which in in itself was odd. Ordinarily, when he sees me he walks the other way until I call him. Even then, sometimes he ignores me and slips down a side street out of view. Last weekend was different though. He came right up to me, stopped in front of me and said, "Jason, remember I told you last week my mom was sick?"

I did remember. He walked with me to Amasango last week, but never made it inside the school's gates. He walked me right up to the fencing surrounding Amasango, adjusted his worn out hat so it tilted off the side of his head and walked away.

He explained along the way that he couldn't come to school because he was washing cars in town--to make money to help out with his mother who was suffering from TB in a local hospital. Simphiwe also has a younger brother he tries his best to care for--and a non-existent father.

Back on High Street, the shelter guys were walking ahead and Simphiwe edged closer, "She died."

I didn't know what to do. I looked at him and told him how sorry I was, as if it would make a difference, and told him to come to school to talk with Mama Jane on Monday. He agreed and we left.

He hasn't been at school all week. I haven't seen him all week: not washing cars in town, not begging outside High Street's many restaurants, no where. He's got no mother, no father and a little brother to care for.

It's Thanksgiving today in the United States.

I think we've all got a lot to be thankful for.