To the person who robbed me . . .
To the person who robbed me,
I can’t stop thinking about you.
When I went to get my hat and realized it wasn’t there, I thought of you. I can’t replace it, I’m afraid. I bought it on Maui when we went there to celebrate Shan’s 50th birthday. She requested that trip from her hospital bed, awaiting her transplant, so her wish was more of an If than a When. It’s a cool hat, so I’m sure it will get some use.
My leather jacket will as well. Even though I got it at a Thrift shop, it’s a good coat. If you wear it with that heavy sweater in the bag, you will stay warm through this cold snap.
I’m ticked off about the sunglasses. They were my birthday present a few years back. I allowed Shan to spend a ridiculous amount on them and I took such good care of them.
But I can get new sunglasses.
I can’t replace the letter from my sister that I have carried in my wallet for years. Nor can I replace the little book I made. Or the journal I was using for my next project.
I’m a writer, you see, and I keep wondering about your backstory. In my stories, I always hint at how my villains became who they are. I think it’s because I used to teach at-risk youth and I know perfectly well why some people end up in trouble.
What is your back story?
Are you like the boy I knew who was locked in his bedroom by his abusive father? Or the one who had his hair set on fire? Maybe you were like the many children I knew who were foster kids in homes that didn’t care about them. Perhaps you were one of those who basically raised yourself. I saw a lot of pain in that job. And pain creates pain.
Whatever your story is, I doubt it’s good. I’m sorry about that.
I wish you had just taken the warm clothes, the cash and credit card, and left the rest.
I wish I could write you a happy ending.
I wish we lived in a world where you could ask for help, and get it.
The zipper on the sweater sticks a little. Just be gentle, and you’ll be okay.
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