Indigence

Poverty (n.)

When I was in middle school I went with my parents on a vacation to Ireland. We rented a car and drove along the roads through many towns, starting from Dublin and making our way through Kilkenny and Cork. Every time we stopped we stayed at a bed and breakfast and unpacked all the things we brought with us. Our suitcases were filled with shoes for comfortable walking, shoes for nice occaisons, shoes for being near a pool or the ocean, shoes for playing golf. We had books and an international cellphone just in case and sweatshirts and sweaters and jeans and khakis. We had golf clubs and magazines and backpacks and fanny packs.
On the way to Cork we stopped at a small town whose name I don't remember. We pulled off the highway to look at a map. We pulled off onto a swail of pebbles near the entrance to a farm. The green land was flat and lush and rolled beneath a deep blue dome of sky. There was a brown farmhouse close to where we pulled off the road that seemed to rise out of the ground. It was a small house, probably as tall as the people that lived there. Its roof was slanted, paint was rising in broken chips from the walls and porch, and weeds sprouted from every conceivable crack or rupture. And there was a dog, an old dog, standing where the steps of the porch led into the house. The dog was fat with uncut hair, its face almost lost in the overgrowth of its fur.
My mother got out of the car and squinted at the scene and said,
"Ew."
After she said this a man wearing a white button down shirt and brown pants that matched his house stepped out onto the porch with a huge smile on his face. He waved and shouted "hello!" to us. I smiled and waved back, jealous of his great wealth.