It’s Just Stuff

I’ve been thinking about all the people who have lost their homes recently due to the floods, tornadoes, and other natural disasters we’ve had lately. I can’t really imagine the feeling of having everything destroyed that way – not only your stuff, but the actual house that contains it all. How do you move on from that?

My apartment was robbed once, years ago, when I lived alone.

I remember when I came home that day, I had one of those surreal moments you have when something has gone very very wrong. The door was not locked, which should have been my first clue. When I stepped inside, the apartment looked like a movie version of a robbery. There were things strewn about everywhere, as if someone had taken out all the drawers and run around dumping the contents all over the floor. It was like a hurricane had blown through the room. I stood there for a moment thinking, “Did I forget to put that stuff away?” It was a ridiculous question. But your mind can’t really register something like that, can’t really absorb the reality your eyes are seeing, so you try to put in back into some kind of normal context.

They took everything. Every. Thing. They took the TV of course, and the VCR, and the clock radio, and my camera. They took my kitchen phone. They took the answering machine. Yes, the answering machine. They took the iron. YES. THE IRON!!! They took a brand new pair of jeans, with the price tag still on them. They took the entire contents of my jewelry box, which was mostly costume, but also some pieces my mother gave me before she died. There was a cameo broach she loved, and a Tiffany watch we had both agreed to believe was real. Those were the only material things I had from her, and some stranger took them.

I tried to come up with theories as to who could have done it. A junkie probably wouldn’t have taken an iron. It had to be someone who knew my routine, and the routines of the four other units in the building. My upstairs neighbor, who was the unofficial manager of the building was always home during the day. Always. Except for that one day. The one day I was robbed. I came to believe it might have been my other neighbor, the one next door. He was moving out of state that week. He had a huge truck out front. He knew the guy upstairs wouldn’t be there. He was a shady character. He was the first one to knock on my door, to point out the window in the back had been jimmied. When I went to the cops with my theory, they laughed at me and told me I watched too many cop shows on TV. They took a statement so I could report it to my insurance company, but were otherwise completely uninterested in this Crime! Of! The! Century! I spent many weeks feeling violated, feeling unsafe, feeling unlucky.

Eventually I replaced my things. (I waited a while on the iron. I never liked ironing anyway.) The jewelry from my mother became a memory, as she had become. Eventually I moved on. Emotionally and physically. I moved to a different part of town. I got a roommate. I never saw my stuff again.

Yes, it’s only stuff, and yes, you do move on. But it’s not easy. My heart and prayers go out to all the people who have lost their stuff recently.