whims, and robbery
I am grieving the loss of old stories
Not so faithfully recorded
But here and there in bits and pieces
As whims struck,
As overwhelmed moments asked for an outlet.
This piecemeal history of my coming of age.
A thoughtless stranger
Stole my laptop
And I, out of fear of exposure, had stashed the files locally.
(Fear is never a good reason to do anything.)
If he’d asked me, I would have given him money
To leave me my stories.
The funny bit – I didn’t prize them before, until they were gone.
Why does that so often happen? So often as to merit a cliché?
