My home was burgled a couple of weeks ago, in broad daylight, apparently by people so desperate for drugs they were willing to climb onto our roof and smash a skylight and windows to get in at 4:30pm on a Saturday. They took precious items, musical instruments and jewelry, the former expensive, the latter not so much. They took our laundry basket to haul their loot. They took my husband's running shoes and my yoga pants and medication out of my bedside table drawer.
And somehow, they didn't take our souls. They didn't get our trust, or our resolve that humans are for the most part a decent bunch. They didn't make us fearful. Their actions were so bizarre and random that we figured we were just the unlucky ones in their path.
Detective Quinones called yesterday to let us know that one of my husband's prized guitars had been located in a pawn shop, the owner there having called them immediately, figuring this guitar was not your average pawn shop item. Detective Quinones plays guitar, and understood how precious this one must have been to us. He told me the long story about the desperate people in the van, who after stealing our things fled and were immediately involved in a hit and run. The vehicle has been returned to its owner (it was stolen, of course), and we will get the guitar soon. We may get our other things, eventually. Most likely not all of them.
But they didn't get anything important. We didn't let them.