Even the Fridge Was Lonely

Loneliness rewires you to stop reaching out because nothing reaches back. You learn to live on crumbs of comfort and call it normal.

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It hummed
like it missed someone.
Low. Constant.
Like a voice
that didn’t know
what else to say.

It was the only sound
most nights—
besides the drag of my socks
on the kitchen floor,
and the click
of light switches
that lit up nothing but stillness.

I’d stand in front of it
longer than I needed to.
Not for food,
there wasn’t much.
Half a jug of milk
I didn’t trust.
A slice of sandwich meat
clinging to the back of the shelf.
Some ketchup.
Mustard.
Two kinds of empty.

But I liked the light.
I liked that it came on just for me.
That something in the house
noticed
when I opened it.

Even the cold
felt kinder
than the rooms
that stayed dark on purpose.

At least the fridge
didn’t yell.
Didn’t stagger in drunk.
Didn’t slam its door,
unless I told it to.

My father slept through everything,
face buried in the couch,
mouth slack,
wallet empty.

I never asked
why he didn’t come eat.
Didn’t need to.
I already knew:
beer fills him
better than I ever could.

I stopped calling it dinner.
It was just time
between being forgotten
and being asleep.

I chewed slowly
to make the slice of toast last.
Dry.
Cornered with crust.
Tasted like what I felt:
barely enough.

The fridge door stayed loose,
never sealing all the way.
It leaked air
like the house leaked safety.

And I’d wait,
just a little longer
each time,
hoping it might hum
something different.
Something more.
A lullaby.
A warning.
A promise.

But it only repeated
what I already knew:

No one was coming.
No one was cooking.
No one was checking
if I’d eaten that day.

Sometimes,
I’d close the door
just to hear the silence after.

That silence,
it sounded like
the rest of my life.

And somehow,
it made me hungrier.

I’ve poured everything into this. Healing Thoughts II: 33 Poems and Meditations for Emotional Renewal is up for order now. These pages carry the deepest, sharpest work I’ve done, and I can’t wait for them to be in your hands.

Thanks for staying till the end.
Most people don’t.
I notice it every time someone makes it this far. Through the noise, through the pain, through the part that asks for honesty instead of comfort. I don’t take it for granted.

Your presence keeps this alive.
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