Last night, I went to the Museum of Modern Art. From a high-up floor, I pressed my nose against the window that looked out to the courtyard sculpture garden- you know, the one where lots of people usually converge.
The courtyard was dark and barren. In the still of the chilly night, all I could make out were pools of rain water sitting atop the marble flooring and the outline of a few trees and sculptures.
I listened quietly and heard the courtyard say that she was lonely. She missed having people sit in her black grid chairs, the ones that leave little waffle squares in the butt and thighs. She longed for the company of children who throw coins into her rectangular pools of water. She yearned for the groupings of natives who sit under the willow tree reading The New York Times or just gazing at other people. She wanted to hear the buzz of many languages being spoken at once.
The courtyard is empty. The doors to her are locked. The longing gazes of her fans from within the glass confines of the museum must suffice for now.
Illustration from Maira Kalman's Max Makes a Million