Theft Ministry
In 2009 or 2010,
my family and I decided
to vacation in the French side
of Canada, which was fine...
except for the fact no one
was capable of speaking a word
of French. Yet.
I was better set in German.
One night, in the streets
of Montreal - cobbled
in surreal silver linings - we
took it upon ourselves
to park our Chevrolet Suburban
in public parking.
At night.
All the while watching
the Montreal Orchestra
play some Russian composer -
Tchaikovsky, probably.
Big mistake.
The public parking,
not the orchestral concert,
which was excellent.
Realizing what happened
was a lot like waking up
after a long, very long nap,
right when the sun sets:
you're not sure what's going on,
and when you do,
a vampire hits you
with a sneaky sip
of your own blood,
by way of a not-so-subtle hicky.
My response, the proper response,
was to yell the only expletive I knew
was appropriate -
my parents didn't bother
to scold me for it.
It was the least
they could do, considering.
One window, expertly
broken to pieces,
most of it inside the truck.
Only things missing
were our laptops
and the bags carrying them.
They didn't bother
stealing the GPS
sitting pretty on the dashboard.
What has me floored
isn't the general reality
of my family experiencing
a vehicular break-in,
or the very particular theft
of every laptop resting inside.
What bothers me
is the loss of every
last tangible memory
of my first and last year
in "the Ateneo",
tokens I was hoping
to cash in when
I'm old and grey.
What bothers me
is a plethora of books
stashed "safely" away,
just gone - victims
of an Inquisition
with a French-ish accent.
What bothers me
is losing the first
bit of poetry I've ever
written since continuing
University, lost
to space and time,
legends of some other tomorrow.
The next day, my dad and I
ate at a quaint breakfast diner
and it was then I realized, well...
at least God can speak
to them Personally -
they stole my Bible.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Strap yourselves in, folks. This is gonna be a long ride.
Cheers!
my family and I decided
to vacation in the French side
of Canada, which was fine...
except for the fact no one
was capable of speaking a word
of French. Yet.
I was better set in German.
One night, in the streets
of Montreal - cobbled
in surreal silver linings - we
took it upon ourselves
to park our Chevrolet Suburban
in public parking.
At night.
All the while watching
the Montreal Orchestra
play some Russian composer -
Tchaikovsky, probably.
Big mistake.
The public parking,
not the orchestral concert,
which was excellent.
Realizing what happened
was a lot like waking up
after a long, very long nap,
right when the sun sets:
you're not sure what's going on,
and when you do,
a vampire hits you
with a sneaky sip
of your own blood,
by way of a not-so-subtle hicky.
My response, the proper response,
was to yell the only expletive I knew
was appropriate -
my parents didn't bother
to scold me for it.
It was the least
they could do, considering.
One window, expertly
broken to pieces,
most of it inside the truck.
Only things missing
were our laptops
and the bags carrying them.
They didn't bother
stealing the GPS
sitting pretty on the dashboard.
What has me floored
isn't the general reality
of my family experiencing
a vehicular break-in,
or the very particular theft
of every laptop resting inside.
What bothers me
is the loss of every
last tangible memory
of my first and last year
in "the Ateneo",
tokens I was hoping
to cash in when
I'm old and grey.
What bothers me
is a plethora of books
stashed "safely" away,
just gone - victims
of an Inquisition
with a French-ish accent.
What bothers me
is losing the first
bit of poetry I've ever
written since continuing
University, lost
to space and time,
legends of some other tomorrow.
The next day, my dad and I
ate at a quaint breakfast diner
and it was then I realized, well...
at least God can speak
to them Personally -
they stole my Bible.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Strap yourselves in, folks. This is gonna be a long ride.
Cheers!
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