"To tell you the truth," I replied, "not only was it 1 a.m. and the guy had vanished, but I was wearing a plastic bag on my head." We had a laugh. I will make sure the motion sensor lights are working, and they had several other ideas for increased security. But my best weapon, I think, is my loud voice and shrill cries. My throat still hurts. My son had a suggestion. "If you're ever in trouble, call out 'FIRE!'," he said. "People always respond when they hear that."
I took the police to my bedroom, the scene of the non-crime, and on the way out, the young male cop stopped. "Your husband is a scientist, I see," he said. And my heart took a hit. He was looking at a poster of a lecture of my father's, didn't notice the "1979" at the top. My father was 57 when the photo was taken, 3 years younger than I am now. No wonder the policeman thought this was my husband.
"No, that's my father," I said.
And now, writing about Dad being younger than I, thinking about break-ins and the day, so dark and wet and dreary - has there ever been a spring this long in coming? - I want to cry.
A glass of wine, instead.
Beth, Sounds like you're being hit from many different angles all at once. Sometimes it seems as if the Fates conspire against us, but I have decided they're not that smart. Coraggio.
ReplyDeleteChris, well, sometimes the fates are smart and sometimes not, but all that matters, as you say, is courage. (At first, I thought you were quoting painter
ReplyDeleteCaravaggio and I thought, my, he had a sense of humour. But it was you!)
Thanks for your note,
b.