Are you rich?

She is standing amidst the parched mulch. Three children under the age of five, spanning from the nucleus mother into opposite directions. I'm in my car. The sun warms the black leather of its interior through the open sunroof. National Public Radio highlights its story on bird influenza throughout provinces of Thailand. My silver luxury vehicle is braying for its cruise pass the five dollar-a-day latte store. Hand on gear shift, I wave. She pauses, imbibing familiarity, and waves back.

She's been a friend for almost five years. She is from Bangladesh. Her husband leaves her at home with the children while he works twelve hour days soliciting ads for a small community newspaper.

She is standing amidst the parched mulch at the playground of a children's private school. In about an hour the playground, now desolate except for my friend and her children, will be inundated with uniformed school children who pay more per hour of schooling than her husband makes.

I close the sunroof of my car, step out, and click my doors locked from the top of the hill. She sees my approach, and hurries towards me.

"Stay there," I yell to her, as I tip-toe down the hill in my 3-inch heels. I repeat my friendly command.

I grab her hand in greeting, and pull her into an embrace. She strokes my back and asks me how I've been.

The little ones congregate around my interruption. The younger two teeter on fledging legs, as sweetly as their mother investigates my well-being.

I tell her, "Enough about me."

She tells me she is expecting a fourth child. She is perhaps twenty-five now. She shows no signs of distress or irritation. Only gratitude, as she pulls strawberries from her insulated lunchbox, to feed her youngest child. His tiny mouth envelopes the strawberries' sweetness, until moments later when he releases its undigested pulp into her hands.

"Hold on," as I reach into my designer tote and pull out a compact of neatly-folded tissues. I hand them to her one by one until the last one swipes his red mouth to pale pink.

"Oh! I'm so sorry I've used all of your napkins!" she says. Her voice is like purity of newly settled snow.

I laugh in both horror and insouciance.

As if on cue, her daughter returns from a jaunt in the playsand, requesting her younger brothers' fruit. My friend pulls her keys out and makes her way towards her husband's car, atop the hill. I grab the keys from her hand. I insist on going for her. She is in her first trimester of pregnancy. She has three young children clamoring for her attention. My children are inside the school. I am free. She acquiesces at first. Follows me. I turn around and smile at her.

"Please," I beg. "Please. I'll do it."

She thanks me, as though I've just disembarked on a journey of days for her.

When it's time for me to leave, she says that she also has to head towards the school. She is meeting someone else inside. She grabs her bags and her children, both in triples, and heads towards the hill. I stop, grab the pile of napkins she has set at the edge of the picnic table, a contemporary scultpure of red, brown and white.

She retreats in horror. "Oh... I can't believe I did that! You can't do that. I'm so sorry," she says, embarassed.

I'm so humbled by her.

I walk the trash to its place, and meet her at her car. She fights the children for her keys, the embattled keyhole bearing the scars of a constant war. The toddler is placed in a lightweight stroller. She hangs two bags on her shoulders. I hug her again, tell her to take care of herself, not to work herself too hard. I tell her I'll call her for a visit to her house. Keep her company while her husband is at work.

"May you be rewarded with what is best. Thank you," she tells me. "You are always there to help me."

"Please don't say that," I retort, as I think about the countless times I have let her down. I'm embarassed by her gratitude, and would ask for a rescindment if I knew that it would not insult her.

She walks away. Her children scurry towards the school buses parked in parallel lines on the lot. She follows them with the stroller, the wheels squeaking with every revolution.

I beep my cars doors open, slide into the warm seat, turn the key in the ignition. Sunroof open. NPR broadcasting. I pass her along the way, standing by the buses.

She is perhaps the richest woman I know.