She glides on silent footsteps
Round the rows and rows of shelves
And sliding drawers, lined with tissue thin
And crinkly to touch, with those gloves,
White – like a magician or a mime.
Her skin’s not seen the sunshine in
A week or two, no windows in her basement room
So artifacts are kept from bleaching
In her hostile rays. But curator’s hands
And loving care of yellowed pages,
Delicate as wings of purple butterflies,
Preserve our history for the world to see.
I was talking to our school librarian today and she was telling me that her daughter wants to work in a museum. As soon as she said it, I felt so jealous that this girl had a great job in mind while being so young.
It also made me realise that I’d love to work in a museum too. I love my job, but I am a true introvert and so I pretty much collapse onto my sofa because all of my energy has been zapped by all that human contact.
The idea of wandering around dusty basements and handling pieces of history sounds like a dream. I think that if I could have that job anywhere it would be in The British Library. Imagine being able to touch Jane Austen or Charles Dickens’ manuscripts.
However, knowing me, I’d probably end up spilling my coffee on one of them.