Retired entomologist
The bug guy—I call him Nate.
“Mr. Erwin.” His name sounds like a bug.
Like an earwig, or something?
Back then, I didn’t even know what an earwig was.

I was in the security office for my first day on the job
To make use of my summer while off the marching field.
I sat by the screen window, feeling the AC battle the heat on my neck.
A small man with 52 years’ worth of smile-wrinkles on his face burst through the door.
He wore cargo shorts and a forest-green polo with embroidered text:
“The National Museum of Natural History”
And—you’ll never guess—
Striped black-and-yellow knee socks with bees on them;
He was hardly my image of a museum scientist.

“Great to see you, Maya! I’m Nate.” We shook hands.
Nate hadn’t seen me since I was little
In overalls, clutching my mother’s leg
While he held a tarantula up to my dinner-plate eyes
I touched it, I think—
I remember reaching out

We walked across the glossy museum floor
He took such small, quick steps, like a penguin
Or an insect.
Nate talks to me:
“It’s National Pollinators Week!”
“What?”
“See these socks? These are my rug-BEE socks.”
I was amazed.
He lived decades of his life in the dust of a museum
Something mostly dead
But Nate brightened everyone’s day
He found so much glee in learning
And exploring

That was the summer I studied plants next to a stuffed mountain goat.
With the endless information at my fingertips
And so much to see through the darkness of the collection halls,
How could I forget all that
When it came time for college applications?
The ocean of unopened drawers—who knows what could have been in each one?
“I would be thrilled to have an opportunity like this,”
My father would tell me at the dinner table.
“This is incredible. Appreciate it while you can.”

Nate put me on the track to studying the earth
And everything on it
I could make money with skills like that, after all.
I could be successful
And I’m female—
“You’d have much better chances because of that,” my father said.

I just call him Clint.
He’s a passionate trumpet player
And an active-duty marine.
I always thought Clint was the best name for a marine—
His clean crew cut and crooked teeth and piercing blue-green eyes
His ephemeral smile
He plated my strength in gold.

I remember that night, I stood there
Waiting to enter the stadium
At the helm of the band—my band—
The brim of my hat shadowed my eyes.
Clint walked up to me in those scuffed brown boots
His leather jacket gleamed under the spotlights
He chuckled
And gave a few taps on the left side of my hat
“Now you’re ready, soldier.”

He understands how my feelings become stone at times like this;
That I’m focused solely on doing my job
Just the way he taught me.
He reached out and uncrossed my arms
And held my gloved hands in his—

“This is what you’re meant to do.”
“I know.”
“Then go out there and kill it.”
He squeezed my heart even tighter than my fingers.

That was my dream—the life I wanted for myself
To understand the way notes dance on paper
And how drums sing
But my father still thinks the saxophone is a brass instrument
What’s the difference between a trombone and a tuba?
He never saw the colors of music

Clint steered me towards that track
I knew what it meant
I wouldn’t make much money, but it would be good money.
Happy money.

I sold my clarinet when I graduated from high school.

Being female did help me—the doctorate did too
Every night I felt my brains popping through my skull
But I made it.
A forensic entomologist—one of the best in the country.
I felt almost like Nate…
May he rest in peace.

Contracts in Paris, Tokyo,
Testifying in cases around the world,
Bringing justice in murder trials
Using what I know about blowflies
And how long it takes them to infest a corpse

I have no family of my own; I travel too much.
My employees are my friends
My lab is my home
Nowhere close to as dusty as Nate’s museum
But I was happy— and I don’t know any different now.

I take my seat at the desk by the window in Dr. Owen’s office.
“Morning, Jim. What do we have today?”
Location: some small town in Texas,
Date and time found: a couple days ago,
A picture of the body on the ground,
Numbers of blowfly eggs and larvae,
Images of the wound on his face,
I stop.
My hand trembles, but I hold on to the photograph.

Regret from the life I didn’t choose
Because it seemed a “smarter” choice
It overwhelms me.
Tears blur my vision and the lights flicker
As I see those crooked teeth
And his blue-green eyes.