The Extinction Museum: Exhibit #684 (Vechur cow femur on wooden plinth)
by Tina May Hall
She wakes up standing in the bathroom, in the dark again. Sleep rambling, her husband calls it. Ambling, her son says, his “r”s still lost in the soft palate. Those milky days, not so long ago, when she would have to shove the nipple into his mouth for a good latch. Tongue tied and they cut him, when he was barely formed, so fresh from her that she felt the sting herself. All day she finds things by touch, the lost glove, the correct account number, the email for the grant officer, the moment when the spaghetti is al dente. A hundred small failures buffeting her, another split end, the meat gone rancid, the wrong brand of toothpaste. Before bed, a hissed argument about microplastics. Her husband accidentally tore the embroidered pillowcase, rust-spotted from where her grandmother had pricked herself stitching daisies. Her son threw another one of his bad tantrums and there was broken glass all over the dishwasher that she had plucked up, shine by shine. Online, they suggested refrigerator biscuit dough to catch the nearly invisible shards, the ones that would slice your throat from the inside if you let your guard down. Then nightmares about killing spiders and possums and masked intruders with a knitting needle or a tent pole, hearing an odd whine like a scream as she pushed the aluminum in, and even in sleep she marveled at the inefficiency when there were so many knives all around her. Her husband’s collection of tactical fixed blades in the top drawer of the dresser, the magnetic strip of cleavers and Santokus on the kitchen wall, the whole box of bone-handled steak knives with their stains and notches. In the bathroom, she inhales deeply. She is awake now. She is breathing metal. Her hands are wet and the house is quiet. The cup of her fist is filled with something raw and sticky. For once, no one is calling for her. She’s not ready to turn on the light.