ARE YOU RICH?

They huddled inside the storm door . . . two children in ragged, outgrown coats. “Any old papers, lady?” I was busy, I wanted to say no . . . until I looked down at their feet . . . their little sandals sopped with sleet.

“Come in, and I’ll make you a cup of hot cocoa,” I said. There was conversation; their soggy sandals left marks upon the hearthstone. Cocoa and toast with jam to fortify against the chill outside . . .  I went back to the kitchen and started again on my household budget. The silence in the front room struck through me. I looked in; the girl held the empty cup in her hands, looking at it. The boy asked in a flat voice, “Lady, are you rich?” “Am I rich? No, certainly not”! I looked at my shabby slipcovers. The girl put her cup back in the saucer carefully. ‘Your cups match your saucers,” she said. 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 hadn’t said thank you. They didn’t need to. They had said more than that. Plain blue cups and saucers, but they matched. I tested the potatoes and stirred the gravy, potatoes and brown gravy . . .  a roof over our heads . . .  my man with a steady job . . . these things matched too. I moved the chairs back from the fire and tidied the living room . . . The muddy prints of small sandals were still wet on my hearth. I let them be. I want them in case I ever forget how rich I am.

Author Unknown