Sweets

They teased about her sweet tooth, but Mrs. Rumplish only smiled and said nothing. She took extras when allowed (cookies, bars, wrapped candies) and hid them in her book bag; Mrs. Rumplish had started storing them for later in her dresser drawer, but the stash was discovered and a scolding had followed (which wasn't right, but she didn't defend herself). They did not understand and that was fine. In the deep of night, she'd rise and shuffle in her stockinged feet to the rooms where they never took sweets because of the extra work. She'd sit and feed a cookie to someone a pinch at a time, whispering how they deserved it and it was an honor to share. For Mr. Birch, she crushed a lemon drop to powder and rubbed a bit of it on the inside of his cheek so that he could get the flavor with his tongue; his eyes shone and Mrs. Rumplish patted his arm, promising to come again soon. She had lived through wars and famine, darkness and despair; there were whole periods of her life where sugar was a miracle and not a staple. Mrs. Rumplish had decided, when life had stabilized and there was enough to buy chocolate every day, that she would never touch the stuff again; she'd save it and watch - waiting for a chance to deliver something marvelous to someone whose life held no sweetness at all. She'd done it for decades and was pledged to the mission until the very end; it wasn't a worthy effort to make for someone if you couldn't do it without a fuss.