I had a Ugandan penpal when I was 8.

My penpal in Uganda only wrote to me once. He liked soccer, he liked drawing, and he wanted to visit the United States someday. He was afraid of spiders because his older brother always tickled his ears with long grasses at night—the first thing to come to mind, every time, was that spiders were trying to climb into his head. I can understand this.

I responded that I also liked soccer, I also liked drawing, and that I was afraid of blood and ghosts. I told him that this wasn't my brother's fault, because my brother is much younger than I am. I told him I was afraid of blood because my father fainted once at a fair at the park by my house. The back of his head hit the pavement and a big circle of blood appeared and grew bigger and bigger around his head. He woke up but could only make a sound like an upset animal, like a goat. Unnnggggh, unnngh. And his face looked waxy, like he was a dummy in the movies with really fake-looking dead bodies. I thought he was going to die too and I wanted to kiss him, but the blood made my knees feel like someone was tickling them, maybe with a long grass.
And I'm afraid of ghosts because I see them standing above me at night. They have long hair that they brush, and they aren't white, they're dark and limp-looking, like coats hanging in the closet when the lights go out. And they never mention anything, even though I always ask. They just stand there and brush their hair, looking almost bored doing it.

I'm older now, and sometimes wonder about my penpal. I wonder why he never wrote back. I wonder if he still draws, or plays soccer, or if he's still afraid of spiders. I wonder if he ever thinks of me and my father's blood. Or if he thought my ghosts were tame.