A child lies face down in the road, unable to run anymore. She’s near an adult, so to comfort ourselves we say it's the child's father, that they did not die alone. The man is watching the child, maybe saying, "Keep your head down. Don't look. I'm right here."
We don't call it peaceful, but, we think, at least they were together.
A family is found in the courtyard. They were wealthy. She had a gold and emerald necklace and their gardens were overlooked by a statue of Athena. Three days before, they may have hosted friends for dinner, lounging on their benches, eating grapes and roasted doormouse with their fingers. The gods have been good to us. But now they are in the courtyard, trying to leave, wade through the deep ash. The heat burns their lungs. The mother holds the baby on her lap and all raise their fists to the sky. The gesture could be mistaken for joy.
The guard dog, still chained to the wall, curls on its back, smothered instantly.
A boy sits against the wall, pulls his knees up like he has done countless times. He has never been a happy child; his mother worries about him. He's old enough to know he is dying, old enough to know that means he won't see his family anymore; he won't grow up. But he doesn't understand its forever.
At the museum we file past them, buried alive, caught in the middle of their screams and cries. We whisper as we mill about, always uncomfortable and quiet among the dead. As if they can't see us. As if they aren't walking behind us, shaking their heads.
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