On returning home from a lovely early evening celebration of my husband's birthday, I entered the kitchen and noticed the door to our daughter's attic room ajar. Hadn't that door been closed when we left? Then I heard Dan's voice from our bedroom: “We've been robbed!” Clothes were strewn haphazardly on the now askew bed, drawers were open, my lap top and cover were missing. In the front room, Dan's lap top plus power cord was also missing and in what we call the Star Room, our DVD's had been ransacked. The television, however, was intact and on the floor were the rejected DVD's. Why hadn't the thieves taken “The Big Lebowski” (too edgy) or “The Hours” (too femininely painful and dramatic) or “Prairie Home Companion” (too senior nostalgic)? Their fine taste, however, robbed us of our “Lord of the Rings” and “Harry Potter” collections and my all time favorite romance for English majors, “Possession.”
We were in shock. I could feel myself reacting from a deep place of calm numbness. Nothing appeared to be ruined but our bedroom screen and our privacy. But slowly we discovered the pervasiveness of this theft. The fire proof yet unlocked strongbox at the bottom of the attic ladder was missing. Inside were our passports, our birth certificates, my financial statements and possibly my social security card. Our dear daughter, who gave us her undivided long distance support via telephone, asked us if our marriage license was also taken. Gratefully, the marriage license remained snugly tucked inside the marriage photo album. “Don't touch anything,” stated the police dispatcher. All I wanted to do was clean up the mess and rid the house of the invasive vibes. But instead we waited and we waited and we talked and talked.
What does it mean to lose a lap top? I forget that the virtual world of my writing is not as real as I make it out to be. I see the words flowing on the page and think they will always be there. I've made hard copies of my essays in the past but here is where procrastination plays its evil music. I hadn't backed up my online journal recently or some of the essays not published on my blog. Words lost. I mused that this only meant my daughter would have less ramblings to read upon my death. To be honest, one of my yearnings for a daughter was to bequeath her my journals. Who else could I leave them to? Who else might be willing to read or skim them?
Dan and I continued to wait up for the police. Finally, around midnight, we climbed the rickety wooden ladder to our daughter's futon bed. Just as we lay our heads upon the pillows, the phone rang downstairs. I rushed to answer it. On this Friday evening at the start of a city wide celebration the police had been preoccupied with an abundance of crimes. So tomorrow morning we would report our theft again.
In the morning things don't look brighter after a break-in, they just look clearer. We listed our tasks: contact credit bureaus, cancel passports, talk with insurance agent, write down missing items and monetary amount,replace screen, assess and further secure house, etc. Most people have dealt with thievery at one time or another. Dan and I both admit our negligence in leaving windows and blinds open on a warm summer evening. We were home by 7:30 p.m., but obviously these thieves were watching. For the first time in probably twenty years both houses on either side of us were without their residents and we were sadly without our aged dog, Lacey. The downtown celebration was loudly booming, while neighborhoods were naively quiet. Hindsight is golden.
It has been nearly a month since this robbery and as I sit here writing on my new lap top, I feel awkward and strange. I've avoided writing even on paper. Is there a lingering fear my words are meaningless and will be swiftly taken away? Or does it also have to do with a daughter's wish? Just before the break in, our daughter drove down for a combined celebration of what we call “Birthday Season.” She, Dan and I all have our birthdays a week a part. After a moment of unusual for her intimate candor, the daughter tells me she wants to share more in the future but she doesn't want me to write about it. I can't explain how my writing has more to do with me than her. But I promise to uphold her wish.
I discover silence is more harmful than loss. I tell friends about the events of the 24th of August and I state that for me and my writing it will be a new beginning. I don't miss easily replaceable stuff. But I do miss my source of personal creativity.
I vow to close the windows and replace worn out screen doors; we will add deadbolt locks to the back doors. But I will not close my heart. After thoroughly and ritually cleansing my house, I find I have also cleansed my compassion. These possibly drug addicted thieves were desperate, even taking the upstairs penny jar. Are their lives so sad and dependent upon such wrongful acts? Dan and I live simply and yet we know our culture applauds wealth and constant accumulation of material goods. What the robbers couldn't take is my gratitude for all that I have: a bed to sleep in, a roof to stay dry and warm, a garden to munch on. They might have erased thousands of words, but what they have gifted me with is a release of the past and a focus on the present; they have given me a restart, a revising of my creative pursuits. I will continue to open the windows when it is warm. I will continue to have new thoughts and imaginings. And I will promise myself to express these thoughts with new words.
(c) 2012
