How Rich Are You?
They huddled inside the storm door—two children in ragged, outgrown coats.
“Any old papers, Lady?” they asked a passerby.
She was very busy; she wanted to say no, until she looked down at their feet wrapped only in thin little sandals, sopped with sleet. “Come on in and I will make you a cup of cocoa,” she said. There was no conversation. Their soggy sandals left marks on the clean hearthstone.
Cocoa and cake would fortify against the chill outside. After serving them, she went back to the kitchen and started on her household budget as they sat enjoying the warmth.
After a few minutes, the silence in the front room struck through to her. She looked in.
The girl held her empty cup in her hands, looking at it. The boy asked in a flat voice, “Lady, are you rich?”
“Am I rich? Mercy no!” She looked at her shabby slipcovers.
The girl put her cup back in its saucer carefully. “Your cups match your saucers.” Her voice was old with a hunger that was not of the stomach.
They left then, holding their bundles of papers against the wind. They had not said thank you. They did not need to. They had done more than that. Plain blue pottery cups and saucers—but they matched. She tested the potatoes and stirred the gravy. “Potatoes and brown gravy, a roof over our heads, my husband with a good, steady job—these things matched, too,” she mused.
She moved the chairs back from the fire and tidied the living room. The muddy prints of small sandals were still set upon the hearth, and she let them be. “I want them there in case I ever forget how very rich I am,” she told herself.
“Any old papers, Lady?” they asked a passerby.
She was very busy; she wanted to say no, until she looked down at their feet wrapped only in thin little sandals, sopped with sleet. “Come on in and I will make you a cup of cocoa,” she said. There was no conversation. Their soggy sandals left marks on the clean hearthstone.
Cocoa and cake would fortify against the chill outside. After serving them, she went back to the kitchen and started on her household budget as they sat enjoying the warmth.
After a few minutes, the silence in the front room struck through to her. She looked in.
The girl held her empty cup in her hands, looking at it. The boy asked in a flat voice, “Lady, are you rich?”
“Am I rich? Mercy no!” She looked at her shabby slipcovers.
The girl put her cup back in its saucer carefully. “Your cups match your saucers.” Her voice was old with a hunger that was not of the stomach.
They left then, holding their bundles of papers against the wind. They had not said thank you. They did not need to. They had done more than that. Plain blue pottery cups and saucers—but they matched. She tested the potatoes and stirred the gravy. “Potatoes and brown gravy, a roof over our heads, my husband with a good, steady job—these things matched, too,” she mused.
She moved the chairs back from the fire and tidied the living room. The muddy prints of small sandals were still set upon the hearth, and she let them be. “I want them there in case I ever forget how very rich I am,” she told herself.