In the early New Mexico light, I visited The National Museum of Nuclear Science and History. Cold, clear day. Vapor streams from my warm breath. Bundled in multiple sweat shirts and jackets. Inside was warm. The museum guide is bright and cheery. The floors polished. Once section gleamed with a giant sized Periodic Table of Elements.
Then I came to the “gadget.”
Do I hear the shriek of air as the “gadget’s” cousin, Fat Man, plummets toward Nagasaki? The flash, heat and blast. Flesh incinerated. Ash falling. Twisted screams. Sizzling metal. The stink of putrefaction. The cries of widows, orphans and the surrendering voice of Japan’s Emperor.
What am I to think? As a writer, I’m fascinated by the creation and the destruction. The use and abuse. As a citizen, imagine seeing a mushroom cloud on TV and hope fall like burnt leaves as I shake my head, thinking “all is lost.”
Perhaps I should see further.
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The mouths yawn. Eyes are rubbed. Somebody shoves somebody. A quiet protest of quit it.
Finally, an eye roll. “Well, that’s just stupid.”
And on to the next exhibit.
So what, oh see do you?
I like what YOU see. I shall cling to your scene of the future.
ReplyDeleteThanks Susan.
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