Too Proud
By Don Iannone

Mom said they were clean
and their parents loved them.
They were just poor, she said.
I felt angry,
but I didn't know why.

Finally, the torn screen door opened.
A frail young woman--
maybe in her mid-20s,
appeared like a ghost before us.
She pushed her hair back a bit,
managed a faint smile,
and said hello.
Mom held out the basket.
"Folks at the church thought
maybe you could use a little help."
The woman's face stiffened.
"We can't accept no help.
My husband won't hear of it."
Mom urged her to take the basket,
filled with food
and a few clothes for the kids.
"Sorry lady, I can't accept it."

Mom's face sunk.
"Are you sure?"
The lady shook her head no.
"I can't."
The screen door closed,
and the lady disappeared.
Four little kids flanked the woman.
I saw their bewildered faces.
I wanted to cry.

We walked in stone silence
down the tattered dirt road.
I felt like we did something wrong,
but I had no idea what.
Mom put down the basket on our kitchen table,
where it sat until evening,
and then it disappeared.
That night,
as Mom tucked me in,
she looked at me sadly and said:
"You can't fault folks for being proud."