A Small Child in the Rain
The child stood near the crosswalk in an oversized gray hooded sweatshirt full of small holes, her blonde hair tangled and damp from the gentle rain. She could not have been older than six. Her tiny hands clutched the long sleeves of her sweatshirt while she stared at the food cart with wide, hopeful eyes.
Margaret had seen hungry people before. Far too many of them, truth be told. New York was a city of dreams, but also a city of struggle. Yet something about this little child made her stop and pay close attention.
The girl was not begging. She was not trying to take anything. She was simply standing there, trembling slightly, trying very hard not to cry.
Margaret leaned out the window of her cart with a gentle smile.
“Sweetheart,” she said softly, “are you hungry?”
The little girl quickly wiped her face with the back of her hand and nodded once. Margaret looked around quickly. There were no parents anywhere nearby.
“Where is your mother, sweet pea?”
“At work,” the girl whispered shyly.
“And your father?”
The child lowered her eyes toward the wet pavement.
“Don’t got one.”
Margaret felt her chest tighten with a feeling she had not expected.
“What is your name, honey?”
“Emma.”
“Well, Emma,” Margaret said warmly, “you come right on over here.”
