I can’t find anything to eat. I checked all the cupboards, including the one beneath the sink. I double-checked the fridge. I opened the freezer as well. I scanned through every little nook and cranny in the kitchen. Nothing.
Next, I tried the basement. Besides the heaps of old newspapers, empty jars, my childhood memories in the form of plastic toys, and the old TV, I found nothing to satiate my hunger.
Perhaps I could eat some of my books? I remember reading something about a person surviving by eating paper. It has cellulose, after all. It should be okay. But I can’t. I can’t bring myself to devour the very words and sentences that have shaped me. The very writing, probably written in a house as dusty as mine, in a time as questionable as today’s, by a person as human as all of us. I can’t reign destruction upon it. Savage, barbaric, predatorial destruction.
I’ll go buy something.
Actually, I won’t. I’ll just sit here. I’ll pull my yellow curtains aside and I’ll let what’s left of the sunshine come in. I’ll talk aloud with it, ask it about all the clouds it pierced today. I’ll ask whether I’ll see it again tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow…
I’ll wait for it to leave and then I’ll forget about the hunger. I’ll forget about the misfortunes, the calamities, the afflictions that plague our world. I’ll forget about the empty shelves, the empty fridge. I’ll also forget about myself. The times, when as a kid, I would jump into the snow; the friends I once had, now scattered throughout the world; the friends I could’ve had, but didn’t; my old dog, Regina, and how she loved me; the feeling of coming home to a warm meal; the way my grandparents smile at me; the way the leaves changed their color, as I spent my autumn days inside that black-and-white room; the scent, coming from the kitchen; the warmth of the blanket; the way the sun beamed through the windows every morning; the halo above your head. I’ll forget it all. I’ll go to bed, and I’ll forgive. Myself, you, everybody.
I will forgive, and the hunger will go away.