Hunger

I lie still, listening to the soft exhalations of my brother and sister on either side of me. The three of us share this bed, the pillow, and the thin blanket protecting us from the cold. I've found myself stuck in the middle as usual, but I didn’t mind. Directly above me is a small window and every night I fall asleep watching the sky, the stars twinkling in the blackness that holds them. The window is a welcome distraction; tonight I've been sent to bed without dinner. My stomach aching for food, I wondered if this punishment was used most often because there wasn’t enough for all of us to eat.

Mothers room is directly next to ours, her room being the only actual bedroom in the tiny house we called home. A soft blue glow from the television floated muffled voices from the late night talk show, leaving traces of laughter and applause bouncing around in my mind. Outside, the faint bellow of a train horn broke the stillness of the night. The train tracks across the street had become my playground; I spent hour upon hour collecting marble-shaped pieces of coal, rounded from tumbling underneath the heavy metal train cars.

The train shifted my focus to the other homes in my neighborhood. Much like ours they are filled with families too big living in houses too small. Everyone here is poor, everyone here goes without. Every morning the street fills with kids making their way to school, many of them hungry and looking forward to the small breakfast provided for us in the cafeteria of the elementary school. We’re deemed the poor kids by those that are fortunate enough to have two parents, or enough money to afford a home in the new neighborhood. My stomach let out a low growl, beckoning me to find something to eat.

I slipped under the blanket and wiggled my way out at the foot of the bed. The wood floor feels harsh against my toes. My path to the kitchen had to be precise as the dusty floor often creaked and moaned under any sort of weight. Standing in front of the fridge I carefully pried it open, spilling light into the dark, sending shadows bouncing on the walls. I cried, staring into an empty fridge. 

I felt a warm hand on my shoulder, Mother. I looked up at her with tear filled eyes, waiting to be scolded and sent back to bed. A tear fell from her cheek as she knelt beside me. “Hungry?” she asked as she gently ran her fingers through my hair. I nodded, afraid to release the emotion in my voice by speaking. Mother stood up, reaching into one of the tall cupboards and placed a single piece of bread in my hand.

“Mom?” my voice cracking. “Are we always going to be hungry?”