There are mice that live between the walls, and when we sleep, they crawl out of their mouse holes, leave teeth marks in our bread, nibble on the soap, scratch away at the window sills. If you stay up late, you might hear them scamper or see their silk grey coats scurry through the kitchen, the living room, across the bedroom floor.
I spread Neosporin on his laceration, wipe it down with Band Aid brand anti-septic. The other American exams the white powdered penicillin and reacts with a judgment made through scoffs and tensed eyebrow muscles. His sad eyes look up at me as he laughs “You know, medicine here in Uganda is not so good.” That chest space swells again. How must it feel to believe your medicine is no good, your education system is fractured, and your infrastructures lag?
I am sad on this hot afternoon, induced by vino anoche and mid-day coffee. It wore my skin thin, so now when the world moves African my heart pulses right up to it, thumps against his $70 dollar a month salary, cracks open and spills out as the halo that crowns his dark eyes simmers tired and kind. That one glance, caught through Neosporin and cotton balls, lingers around. That glance, and the laugh that encases those eyes, snags my breath. He shouldn’t believe everything here is second rate. I crumple inside, because while I bring my good intentions, my road maps to prosperity and my educated perspective, I also bring a dichotomy that ranks him.
Sometimes the space between the lines nibbles its way into my heart, builds a nest that grows hairy and ripe, and claws away at my faith. Sometimes I fear that I swallow the pain and call it my own without truly knowing its underside. I feel the trail markers of oppression tickle until my heart pumps blood sticky and raw. I confuse who the pain belongs to. I am not oppressed but I live among it. Am I entitled to mourn it? Does the mourning reinforce it? The swell feels human, compassionate, as though it’s born out of love. But pity neither leads the mouse back to the field nor squashes her in her tracks. Pity breads oppression, irreverent of intent.
I go back inside. I lie on the floor and listen to music. I float home nostalgically. As the guitar rift rattles out of weathered speakers, I feel two worlds crashing against each other, a mouse clinging to the cradle she’s made in my heart, and a secret understanding that maybe I’d be happier if I’d never known this place. Maybe he’d be happier too.
