THE MUSEUM
Writing practice.
I once saw a gleam in the eye of a stone statue. I was five at the time and I pointed with a chubby finger, but my mother didn’t stop. She tugged me along, my tiny heels doing nothing to stop her. It seemed that it’s face was slightly sad, but perhaps that was just me. I was leaving a friend and I felt the same loss as when I dropped my blanket in the convenience store last year. That night, I sat on my father’s lap and babbled on and on about the frozen person, the friend I had made.
“Did you say hi?” He had asked and I had shook my head slowly with a dejected sigh.
The next week, my father took me back. He held me on his shoulders and let me talk to the statue, telling them all the details my little mind could think of. I told them my name, my dad’s name, the name of my cat, the name of my favorite teacher, and how I loved watching late afternoon shows, despite my parents’ protests. I would look down to find my father smiling at me, watching me with such love and adoration.
It became our thing, going to the museum. The guards all knew my name, asked me about my day and if my vocabulary quiz last week went well. My father would chat with the tour guides and other staff as I perched in front of my statue. One day, the museum curator came over, a nice lady named Clarisse, and told me all the facts that existed about my statue. She took my hand, walking me around, and taught me about all of the other statues. None were more beautiful than mine, though.
It wasn’t a shock to my parents I told them, later on in life, that I wanted to go into art history. With Clarisse’s help, I landed a spot at Cambridge with a small scholarship, quite far from home. The culture shock was worth the education. Over the summer, I worked at the museum, quickly becoming the best tour guide they had at the Louve. I’d stay late, studying and drawing my statue, Artemis of Rospigliosi. Her beauty was unlike any I’d ever seen.
Sometimes, I’d fall asleep on the bench that Clarisse had made sure to place near my sculpture. The guard of the night would shake me awake and I’d be on my way. They were never mad. Only once—with a new, young guard— did I actually get in trouble for being after hours.
Tonight was no different than the rest. I was catching up on my summer classes, studying book V of Latin, when the words blurred and lulled me to sleep. I don’t know how long I was out, the sun far past gone. I was prodded awake by a cold, hard finger and yawned out an excuse, stretching and rubbing my eyes to find a familiar face. A face that once was stilled by stone was alive; grey and lifeless eyes now full of rich brown and golden color, staring at me. Her hair curled around her face in dark chocolate locks and her cheeks were rosy with color. Her thick eyebrows were knitted in curiosity and her robes almost tickled my face as she leaned over me.
“Te adiuvāre possum?”
I sat up. I slapped myself. She stepped back in alarm. Her lips parted in concern. My watch read 12:08pm. The guard must be asleep. I wanted to scream for help, but the look on the woman’s face held me steady in place. I looked at the weathered stone podium to find it empty.
There she stood, my Artemis, in soft flesh and thumping blood.
