The museum near me contains many stuffed animals. This is not unexpected. Standard fare in similar venues across the country.
But the ocean room and I had a deep connection. Every inch was so beautiful. A stuffed porpoise hanging next to a rack of crabs. A frozen seagull swooping above mussels long since removed of their soft innards. If you visit the museum on a damp February morning, you can be alone with these animals. The upstairs dinosaurs steal away most of the customers.
These one on one sessions were perfection. The best part of my life since I was five. I was certain that some of them whispered to me.
I heard about the flood on the local news. A presenter standing outside the building, using words like ‘damage’ and ‘saturated.’
The ocean room was on the ground floor. Everything was about to change forever.
My coat stayed on the rack. I slammed my flat door, and learnt that every driver will honk their horn if you run across open traffic. But I made it to the museum in under twenty minutes. A new record.
The building was technically closed. But the security were old, and towards the end of their contracts. I did not acknowledge them, and they did not take the time to stop me.
My mobile phone's torch revealed the situation was worse than I expected. A massacre. The leak was the muddy colour of hay and beer, and smelt of rotten eggs. The Egyptian statues in the hall had water past their feet. I sloshed through the darkness to my favourite room in the world, expecting the worst.
But the sound of the sea was louder than ever before.
The seal moved first. Those ancient stuffed limbs made their first turn for over a century. Soon a dozen crabs tapped twenty-four claws against the glass.
With a creak the porpoise wiggled on its strings, and landed with a splash. A hundred beings returned to life, and my cave of wonders became ever more wonderful.
I laughed in the dark. Somehow I knew this was always going to happen.
