they huddled1 inside the storm door—two children in ragged2 outgrown3 coats.
"any old *s, lady?”
i was busy. i wanted to say no—until i looked down at their feet. thin little sandals, sopped4 with sleet5.
"come in and i'll make you a cup of hot cocoa.”
there was no conversation. their soggy sandals left marks upon the hearthstone. i served them cocoa and toast with jam to fortify7 against the chill outside. then i went back to the kitchen and started again on my household budget.
the silence in the front room struck through to 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? mercy, no!"
i looked at my 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 *s against the wind. they hadn't said thank you. they didn't need to. they had done * than that. plain blue pottery8 cups and saucers. but they matched.
i tested the potatoes and stirred the gravy9. potatoes and brown gravy, a roof over our heads, my man with a good 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 upon my hearth6. i let them be. i want them there in case i *r forget again how very rich i am.
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