The Mice in Me

“If walls could talk”. I have heard that phrase often over the years. The humans say it when they wish I would recount for them tales of the past. Of what was said and who was there. They assume that great things must have transpired. Well perhaps they are correct, but I would not know. Humans say a lot of things, I scarcely bother to pay attention, let alone remember any particular human event.

Many generations of humans have come and gone while I have stood. For a long while there were beds in the room before me, and I watched the humans as they grew. They came into the room as babes in arms, stayed on as children. They left after that, but some returned with babies of their own. One day the adults gathered all the children and left.

Then for a time it was all dark, there was no one except for a few animals. When the humans eventually returned, they took out the beds and put in a grand table surrounded by chairs. I watched them eat, gathered as a clan for meals. Sometimes in silence, but oft times a noisy and quarrelsome affair. This went on for a while, but over time the number of guests at dinner got fewer and fewer, the meals got quieter and quieter. Until it was just one old woman being served by one old man.

There were a few blissful years of quiet after that. Then another group of humans arrived. They were not dressed in the finery of old, nor did they appear to have respect or manners. They set a fire upon the floor, breaking chairs and tables for firewood. They walked on the carpet with mud on their boots, using one corner of the room for trash and another for bodily waste. This group eventually cleared out, leaving the room in shambles, and one of their own face down in the filth.

The current humans are not so bad. They showed up first as cleaners, washing away the filth and grime. Then as restorers, replacing the carpet and chairs. Next were arrangers, setting out dishes and napkins, and a velvet rope across the door. Now there is a man who stands in the doorway, giving tours to strangers. During his speech he sweeps his arm across the room, and asks, “If walls could talk”.

I can guess what he would ask of me. The names of the babies, or the reason they left on that day. The cause of the arguments at dinner, or the last words of the old woman. The names of the ruffians, especially which one stabbed the other. But these are the things a human would wish to know.

All these years and generations, and not once have the humans ever bothered to thank me for holding up the ceiling, for keeping out the wolves, for never falling down, for never failing in my duty. Instead they just assume I will continue steadfast, while wishing I would also regale them with tales and stories. They never consider that I am a wall, not a human.

If walls could talk, I would tell them of the mice burrowing inside. Of my stone slowly crumbling under the southwest eave. I would tell them of the men with hammers and nails piercing me violently in order to hang pictures for their amusement. I would tell them of electricity, and how humans carved out holes and ran wires through me, and hammered bolts to hang lights. I would tell them of the times I have been drawn on by toddlers, punched and kicked in anger, or slammed against by lovers.

What the humans don’t understand is that if walls could talk, then they could also scream.