I never knew Gandhi had such a lovely face. I was looking for the word “gallant” in the dictionary. I guess I must have skipped a few pages past it. Then I saw his name. “Gandhi, Mohandas Karamchand. Known as Mahatma. 1869-1948. Indian leader who developed the practice of nonviolent disobedience that gained independence for India.”

On the other side of the page, past a row of words, ­etymologies, and definitions, was a picture of him – goofy-looking, bald, bespectacled. He looked so happy, I even smiled. I guess I turned the page, because right after I blinked the blurriness from my eyes, there was a big mascara teardrop on the word “gallant.”

Why I cried, I'm still not sure. Maybe I'm jealous of the pure happiness radiating from his face. Maybe I want someone like him in my life. Or maybe I recognize that smile as my own, one I used to have when I was truly happy, not surrounded by endless barricades of snow, not angry and adamant against my parents. I may have recognized it so much that when I saw him, I cried, like someone who sees a friend after years of thinking they are gone forever. Maybe that's it. Maybe.