God Bless You, Laura Kauffman
On an unseasonably warm early afternoon in January two young Americans missed their return flight to Mexico by minutes. Dejected, they returned to the previous night’s refuge, MK’s Brooklyn apartment. The copied key sat glistening on the table two flights up. The sorry two sat among their suitcases on the low stoop and tried to formulate a plan. Then a vision in pink surmounted the steps from the brownstone next door. She had long blond hair and an air of fairygodmotherly kindness. She invited them in to her warm, rustic kitchen for loose leaf tea and walnut baklava. Her almost grown fuschia and flannel colored children fled up the creaking staircase while they sat with her at the dark wood board, discussing past and present and all was pleasing. She was a living embodiment of the holy virtues compassion and hospitality. They thank her from the bottom of their dusty, disheveled hearts.
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