You are standing in front of it again, the door open, the cold light on your face, staring into a full shelf and announcing there is nothing to eat.
I remember this exact pose. One hand on the door, the other on your hip, the little bottles in the door rattling as you lean. The hum you never once heard in all those years, that low steady breath the kitchen made all night, keeping your milk good, keeping your leftovers safe, asking nothing.
You will not always have this. Not this fridge, I mean, with the crayon drawing held on by a magnet shaped like a strawberry, the grocery list you never finish, the takeout containers you keep meaning to throw out. That whole crowded door was a kind of proof. Proof that people lived here. That someone shopped, and planned, and came home.
So go ahead. Take the long time you always take. Let the cold spill out into the warm room. Eat the cheese standing up with the door propped on your foot.
There was plenty to eat. There was always plenty.
You just could not see it yet.