Hunger

By Betsy Armstrong

If I saw that woman in the grocery store, what would I think? I would think she must be very hungry or maybe homeless. If she had a daughter, like I do, I’d want to feed them both.

Oily strands of hair stick out from the front of her pink stocking hat (the kind that has two braided carnation-colored pigtails drooping by the sides of her face) and gray ashes smudge underneath her shell-shocked eyes, scanning the strawberries, the watermelon, the apples. She winces and turns away. Is the explosion of color in the produce section too much? Is there something she wants but can’t afford?

She drifts through the store, considering, rejecting, accepting. Choosing what to keep and what to walk away from. She selects a package of bubble-fruit. Such a bubbly name. And then puts it back. I see her - actually, me - as the decision deflates her and she shuffles on.

Her daughter - my daughter - delights in those peach-colored orbs floating in a sea of sugary coral, but her daughter - my daughter - didn’t come home last night from the hospital. The woman, unlike her daughter, returned home to find the cupboards bare, waiting.

That woman - me - is trying to fill the emptiness with sustenance, after she kept vigil though the night, counting heartbeats and respiration. Measuring her daughter’s - my daughter’s - despair.

The emergency room doctors counted the pills her daughter swallowed. Her daughter’s appetite for the round, small circles - the opposite of juicy - was insatiable.

The woman - me - abandons her cart. Her heart hurts too much for this job. She only hoped to feed her daughter happiness and love.

They are both still starving.

—

About Betsy Armstrong

Armstrong is a writer and Intuitive Eating Coach who enjoys exploring the intersection between family, feelings, and (sometimes) food. Her essays have been recognized by Writer's Digest and Women On Writing, and she is currently completing her first memoir. You can learn more at betsyarmstrong.com