I once called Hunger a night-time cuddle. Then, I called it Mother. Blood. Punishment after school. Needles in the belly. Coins in the pocket. Birthday present. Teeth under the pillow. Grandma's secrets. My grandma says, so my mother says, we must wash our feet and change our socks every day, in case something happens to us and we have to be taken to hospital. Grandpa had clean feet at the end of a soiled body. If he had brushed his teeth, throat and lungs, he would be here talking. He’d say that Hunger was first a dead rat on the frozen soil of a war camp. Then, a forgotten crust of cheese on a table. A mother who waits holding a bowl of soup cooked years before. He could say if he died hungry. My grandma doesn't talk about Hunger, so my mother doesn't talk about Hunger. 

Once I saw Hunger walking in the courtyard. A hooded figure with a thousand mouths. Some had a whole row of teeth, some had none. And I never know which one bites the hardest, which one causes the most pain.