I stood at the large black lab bench, and my thoughts were at once drawn to the object in the container before me.  The smell was one of a preservative, perhaps formaldehyde, perhaps something else.  Everybody in the room spoke in low, respectful, professional voices.  The sound of rain on the windows that May morning remained audible above the subdued din of speech.

I pulled the small object from its liquid-filled home.  Tan in color, hardened from its former goo-like consistency by time and chemicals.  I rolled it around in my gloved hands, feeling the bumps and folds.  I marveled at its surprisingly small size.

The brain.  The seat of consciousness.  That which makes us sentient.  Rational.  Creative.  Irrational.  Human.

I couldn’t help but ponder the history of that specimen.  It was from an adult, so it had surely experienced a significant amount of life.  It had loved, it had learned.  It had hated, it had schemed.  It had friends.  It had family.  It had, at one time, realized its own mortality, and thus considering that inescapable truth, it had made the decision to donate itself to science, to the pursuit of Truth.

The circumstances prevailed on me to maintain a detached, objective professionalism — at least outwardly — but my inner voice was free to marvel and contemplate.

Where did this brain grow up?  Was it good at math?  Perhaps it played an instrument.  Perhaps it experienced first stage-fright and later elation at a dramatic performance well done.  Did it ever marry?  Do its offspring still wander this world?

What was its final thought?  Was it surrounded by loved ones at its end?  Was it happy?

I put it back in its container.  It had a name, but now it had only a number.  It was just an object.