Whenever I venture back to the city that I left, I have to go in and stop to visit the dust and old scents of the museum I left behind. Though according to the curator I never left. I am a "consultant". I just live far away. Thus begins the usual playful banter amongst oil paintings of men long gone, a giant 100 year old cash register that has to sit on a dolly to support its weight and other unknown nick knacks whose purpose are written on faded old cards.
"Can I go visit my baby now?"
"Sure, no one has been up to see it since you were last here."
" That's why you should give it to me. I will take good care of it. Anyway, you have at least twelve of them, you won't miss it."
He smiles and gently shakes his head like a parent. But he gives me the keys to the vault to go "and say hello."
So I make my way through the maze of tunnels to the 77 year old Otis elevator, pull the heavy gate and push the knob to the 4th floor. It bounces and clicks until dropping me off in a dark tunnel. I went this way a thousand times and know where to go until I reach the gate that says "museum artifacts are happier in the dark."
Unlocking the gate and going past light bulbs, model airplanes, 90 year old typewriters and city replicas I make my way to the back to the heavy graphophone featured in the 1896 World's Fair that won my heart all those years ago. And with slight touch of an old spring it hums back to life and warms my heart until the next visit.
ying, ying, ying, ying...
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