Mark's Pages

August 15, 2003:

We all knew who the burglar was.

Rundown house on the corner, dead lawn, tumbleweeds, swept with dust-devils of trash and cat food. Rusted car on blocks. Mama lives in a trailer on the street, with her two tiny

Slouching sons in overalls. Fat, the whole family. Downcast, sluggish, slow-moving. You can hear mama's shouting up and down the block. "Bring me my medicine!" Heads-down and mumbling they do as they're told.

The younger son had taken to climbing into people's open windows. The night he climbed through mine he made off with a few loose dollars and some old coins I'd been thinking of collecting.

The neighborhood cops proposed a succinct solution.

Pointing to my shotgun they said, "How would you feel about blowing him away?"

Politely, I declined, thinking how unsure I was just who I was actually afraid of.