I have a photo of a man whose name I don’t know. The man has no frame. No home. Just sits on my nightstand leaning up against the lamp my grandfather left me when he passed away. His rusty spade tells me that he was a farmer. His worn boots tell me that he had to work hard. His sunken features tell me he didn’t get enough to eat. As the gutter hanging from the leaning barn behind him collects water he collects dust. He just smiles. I come home from failed-to-get-her-number-nights deflated. Another day of not getting that raise. And yet, the farmer smiles. I find solace in his smile, and he always smiles. I have a photo of a man whose name I don’t know. He’s smiling. That’s enough.