The Things That Are Lost

Tragedy struck us last night. Thieves stole through the darkness and broke into our car (broke perhaps isn’t the right word since I left it unlocked) and took my purse and brand new GPS.

Things they did not take:

Box of Gobstoppers.
Spiderman bouncy ball.
Baseballs.
The horse blanket my sister brought me back from Guatemala.
Change in the ashtray.
One white jellybean stuck under the driver’s seat.
Water bottle.
My Cher’s Greatest Hits CD.

Things in my purse:

My new camera. (The replacement camera for my last stolen camera.)
My wallet with license and debit card.
A pair of Ella’s socks.
$15.00.
A Spiderman action figure.
My Wegmans Shopper’s Club Card.
My Subway Rewards Card (two more ‘til a free sub.)

Ella’s heart.

I am full of the anger.

Between the GPS, the camera, the fees for a new license, and the $15.00, we are out a good $300.00.

I’m feeling very, very sorry for myself. And guilty. I left my purse in the car. I left the doors unlocked. Apparently, our strange visitor visited 30 others houses in our neighborhood last night. The police stopped by and took my statement, detailing the things I had lost. The serial number to the GPS. The canvas texture of my green Fossil purse. The pictures of Ben grinning on his brand new bike. Me kissing his cheeks.

Ella’s heart.

The Stolen Camera

Since the camera was stolen,
everything is a photograph –
pink bloom against white stucco,
serious face of the potato chip man
leaning over his cart.

In the square, gypsies with brilliant skirts
twirl among palm trees.
I reach for the camera, to hand it to you,
but it is gone, stolen by a thief
who knows nothing of lenses.

Are you thinking of the camera?
I ask you once,
and you nod.
You will not mention it.

Two days ago you caught
the shrivelled saint who kissed your hand,
the twins of Bougainvillea laughing
in their windowsill.
Your camera had careful eyes,
and now the pictures are stolen inside it,
babies who will never be born.

How would I feel if they stole my pens?
My lips would go on making words,
when I crossed the dappled street,
words everywhere, steps
or yellow leaves.

Today we pass the monastery silently.
maybe we are soaking up light,
brief angles of sun on stone.
Mabe tonight when we sleep
all we have seen will arrange itself
inside us, quick trails of stars,
and we will wake glowing,
the world in our eyes.

Popayan, Colombia

~ Naomi Shihab Nye, from Words Under the Words