Bemoan the death of a hero
the sighing dirge, unsung in my head
a red cape, forlorn,
lies enshadowed on the floor
Who will be my hero now?
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This news almost overshadows the excitement my family is dealing with. The house that that noone is living in right now (FJ, Ninsi, this is the one by the school, remember?) was broken into recently. They took: the antique furniture that we hadn't moved yet because it never occured to us that someone would break into the house and steal the biggest thing they could find. That wasn't all -- in addition to the loss of the genuinely antique desk and attatched hutch, they took the matched lingirie (?) drawers that belonged to the Eldest sister, and mom's cedar chest that Youngest sister had packed all of her very best, Keeping-for-the-rest-of-her-life, leaving-to-whoever-comes-after-me treasures. They also took miscellaneous articles that were in the desk and drawers.
We will, in all likelyhood, never ever see any of these things again.
The sanctity of the house we spent our growing-up time in is broken. The stronghold is overcome; the castle fallen.
Precious articles of family and memory are in the hands of the unrelated and uncaring; pawed over and sorted, treasures discarded as trash.
My family is wounded.
I think it is easier to deal with a death. This is violation, not only of the homestead but of the soul. We don't know how to deal with this; we have no coping skills for this tragedy. Almost anything else, dear God, we could handle better.
Why this?
Why us?
