Page 61 - I Live in the Slums: Stories (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

the grasslands. You just felt bone-penetrating cold, and then your heart stopped
beating. And so my kin didn’t say someone had “died,” but said someone had
“chilled.” Although I wasn’t there, I remembered that black-tailed guy. He lay
there facing up, watching the gray clouds massed above him, opening his mouth
slightly, and not moving. He was as cold as ice—rigid. I remembered, too, that
year after year, even though new kin were born, our numbers were decreasing. I
didn’t remember whether we had fled later. We must have. Otherwise, how
could these kin here in the slums, including me, have arrived here? “Let me take
the little mouse home, let me take the little mouse home, let me . . .” Auntie

Shrimp kept saying this outside the door, but she didn’t come in. Maybe she was
afraid of the heat.

The slums were my home. This home wasn’t exactly what I wanted: everything
was difficult, and perils lurked at every turn. But this was the only home I had.
My only option was to stay here. I used to have a homeland, but I couldn’t go
back to my homeland. It was useless to yearn for her. I stayed in these slums of
mine: my eyes were turbid, my legs thin and weak, my innards poisoned over
and over again. I endured, I endured. That gigantic eagle in the sky over my
native place appeared in my mind—and brought me strength.