I am sitting on the floor next to my fridge on this one room I call my house. This bedroom/ kitchen/ dining room and sometimes bathroom. The fridge’s door is cracked open so that the light from inside casts a faithless prayer over me. I do this to feel something, despite it being May 5th, the winter creeping in on us unannounced like always. But today I have no words to make myself feel something else other than loneliness so I am sitting on the carpet-less floor to let the cold have me, pinch feeling into my body if only to let my mouth have words for it alone. It’s lockdown and there is a community in earshot sharing concern over government social welfare food, asking each other if they have received any, sharing the bit they offloaded from the white Toyota Hilux S/C that just passed by. The food is an extension of the government’s warmth; a mother’s touch through nourishment. I did not receive the food. I do not really need the food. But no one asks me if I’m ok, if I slept well last night or if I need anything. It is this kind of loneliness that eats the space inside my house so that it throws me to the floor. On a normal day, I wouldn’t be bothered by this, truth be told I have not inquired about anyone’s wellbeing during this lockdown, or shared a cup of sugar, or my mother’s salt with them.
Cover Photograph: Reneé Thompson