The other day I had lunch with my friends Nathalie and Tom. "The other day we would have distributed many more bottles of hot water than we had..." she sorrowed. When their obligations allow, during the cold winter months of London, Nathalie and Tom get as many hot water bottles as they can and distribute them in London to the needy, to those who have the misfortune of living on the bloody street, to mercy of the elements and other humans - often worse than minus-zero temperatures. In this city the distances are long and my curiosity made me ask how they did it so that the water stayed warm: it turns out that they ask to fast food restaurants and cafes if they can filled them. I thought it was brilliant.
Back home, I think about the times I regretted not having turned on the heater or just wearing a sweater and not two, and the puncture insists. I think of the times that I have been happy because the mercury came down, I think of the times that I have been glad to take the coats out of the closet and I think of the times I have been pleased for that hug that lasts a little longer than what it is set and I think about the times I have been happy to feel warmth because, in reality, what I like about the cold is the heat. And the string grows.
I think now of those that Nathalie and Tom try to take care of as much as they can, that task with the hidden ones, with the invisible ones. I feel sorry, and angry; two emotions that get messed up, that occupy a large part of my body against which I can not fight and that does not allow me to walk straight. What I do not understand becomes hollow inside me until I solve it. This damn world is weighing me more and more.
Tom tells me stories that sound so far away that I think about this stupid cold that I like because I do not think about those who suffer with it. And the slap is stronger.
Who can escape from that? Who can assure me that my offspring will not have to be born in other countries, that I will not have to go to a shelter which gives me a mattress, that I will not have to throw my baby into the sea and put my house in a plastic bag? Who can tell me that this is not going to happen? Who can tell me what is not happening? The slap hurts more and more.
If the slap also hurts you, you can help those who need it donating online to Whitechapel Mission. Transform a life today!
* Article published in Spanish in Diario de Mallorca (02/03/19)