Sunday, March 30, 2014


Place Marcel Ayme, Montmartre
On the day I left for Cologne, most likely very soon after I left for the airport and my husband clicked the leash on our dog to go for a walk, someone broke into our house and stole from us. It seems to have been a brief attack, only charge cards, money and gift cards were taken. Then we noticed the missing prescription drugs. Where was my husband's wedding ring - rolled under the bed or gone for good? Rolled coins, nestled in boxes in the closet - a collection of state coins in the process of being gathered for the grandchildren - are gone. The boxes are there but they gape open in their emptiness. What else will we discover missing as we reach for something out of habit and come up empty-handed?

I suppose we are lucky. This may not be a first for us, but it is a violation felt to the core just the same. We are physically safe and I am thankful for that as we hold each other in quiet contemplation of our vulnerability. Our minds are damaged and our hearts leaden with pain at the prospect that it maybe someone we know. Is it? I don't know. I hope not. The tragedy is that it make us susceptible to the idea. The police said it often is, especially when other things which could be sold are still here. I rebel against that idea but the notion is now seeded in both our minds.

The losses are greater than a few dollars and the inconvenience of mopping up the details of someone's major shopping spree while I was out of the country. The real loss is much more personal.