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The art museum is closed to the general public on Mondays, so I was one of the few people in it. While on lunch break, I wandered into the hall of antiquities and spent an hour alone surrounded by statues of Roman gods, goddesses, and heroes. I had a book of Ovid’s poetry with me, so I spent a while reading it to them. My voice and those ancient verses echoed through the empty halls in such an eerie and ancient way. It’s possible that this is the first time these statues have heard Ovid in a thousand years (Unless they were recently found, that’s unlikely. Up until this last century Latin was not at all uncommon, and this poetry has been the bane and torment of countless students for over a thousand years. I myself spent four years obsessing over it in high school. I loved it, but I’m a weird one.). I was hoping that hearing that familiar poetry might wake them up, but no. They only leered down at me with their castigating eyes as Mr. Souther (my Latin teacher) would when I’d blow a vowel or miss an elision. They didn’t wake up, but I was glad to read that poetry again.