Micky

It started as a shadow moving along the floors in the dim of night or a sound rustling in the stillness of walls or nightstands. A ghostly presence? A manifestation of discord and longing? After months of prayers and introspection, I saw the tail appear. The playful, dislocated field mouse scurried across the carpeted floor, banishing the spectral and spiritual. Harmlessness had been residing within the home, upsetting nothing but deepest insecurities. How often our narratives are wrong. How often darkness is projected onto innocence. Micky, I called him. Why not? He was captured humanely. He sat silently as he was transported to a vast park where he would be safe among grass and trees. Free. When I released him from the plastic trap, in which he had sat quietly during the trip, he burst forth like a star going nova across the graveled parking lot. Not at all towards the safety I intended. How often our narratives are wrong.