Walls Of Poverty

Brody and I were in a Chinese grocery store earlier this week. It was 8.40pm and the staff were readying themselves for closing time, cleaning floors and wiping benchtops.
We had other concerns. With thoughtful expressions, we gazed at a box of expired fruit covered in cling film and marked $2.50.

"That persimmon is rotten all on that side."

"Yeah, but I could cut that out."

"And there's a ton of apples. That's barely sixty cents' worth of apples."

"But—pears. Those are three pears there."

"And tomatoes. God, I wish I had tomatoes."

A few metres behind us was a bucket of pulverised rotten apples, the cast-offs from a huge crate of 30c per kg Fujis that I had carefully examined the previous day, selecting ten.
I had eschewed the rows of noodles, the packs of soup mix, and the siren song of melons, both prince and rock. I cast a canny eye at the eggs, my mind racing with the devil's calculus; what price would I pay for such indulgence? An ocean of possibility lay before me, but it was a false choice. It would be foolish to take any of it, and I left with my apples alone.

This week we have felt the agony of those pressing their noses up against the glass, seeing opulence and pleasure but knowing that it cannot be had. The price is too high; the price is forgoing every other thing, every little liveable touch that people with money simply have, have never been without, and have never had to risk surrendering.
We have felt the sneaking sense that perhaps there will not be enough food, that hunger is an option and a trade-off for other desires, and that these basic needs are in competition with each other. There is not enough money to forget these things, to forget worry, and to feel free.