Letter to a Thief

I wrestled with this poem. I continue to wrestle with her, and I wrestled with whether or not to publish her.

The ending of this poem uses the word 'could' intentionally, as a question. I truly don't know if I could be that person, or respond in that way - or even if it's what is needed. Could is a possibility I breathe into.

Of course at times I've been the thief, the one in error, and I felt this in my body, too, as I wrote. It's humbling and also reassuring. For in forgiveness we find our common ground, and home.

Letter to a Thief

“We all need forgiveness. God knows.” - Hector Black, telling his story at The Moth

with many thanks to Tad Hargrave for the story

You were shocked, then angry, then heartbroken. But before that
there was a man, knocking at your door, offering to fix your car.
You'd been needing help and thought, perhaps this is my answer.
And you heard the desperation in his voice, the squeezing worry
about money, a familiar ache in your own life. So you said
let me think about it, even as you wondered, Is this wise? And even though
it wasn't wise to trust this man's promises, when he showed up the next day
and you said no, I'll pass on your help, but he said he'd already bought
the paint, you agreed to pay for it, thinking, I don't want him
to lose $125 over a misunderstanding. And when he said, if I were a rich man,
I wouldn't ask for the money, you thought, if I were a rich woman
I wouldn't feel angry about giving it. But you were angry.
And when you handed over the money and he said the paint was at the shop
but he'd drop it off, you waited – asking politely, then not so politely, then silently, for no paint was coming. Later, when your husband suggests he may have
needed the money more than you do you agree, that's probably true.
But you still feel angry.
And as you think about what you want to say to your thief, of course
you remember a story your friend told you about a kind man,
his beautiful horse, his angry friend, and the envy this man had
for his friend's good fortune – most especially, his horse. So when the angry man asks to buy the horse, and the kind man says no, dear friend, I can't sell you
this fine horse, but you may borrow it, the angry man rages. Thwarted in his passion to possess the horse, he invents a plan to cheat his friend.
The angry man disguises himself as a beggar on the side of the road, and when
the kind man rides by on his horse, the beggar pleads, sir, I must get
to the market, may I borrow your horse? And the kind man, being kind, says yes,
of course, and the angry man jumps on the horse, gleefully laughing as
he finally owns what he'd coveted. And as he laughs, the kind man recognizes
his friend and concedes, you've won, the horse is yours. But promise me,
friend, when you get to the next town, I beg you – don't tell anyone how you
got this horse. For if you do, no one will ever give to a beggar again.
You think of this story as you sit, facing your own loss. And you think
of the no soliciting sign you bought in a huff after you realized
you'd been robbed, and you think of the news, the confusion you read there,
the boiling distrust between neighbors and strangers. You remember
your thief's brown skin and black hair, what might mark him as a stranger.
You think of the dozens of people who've appeared at your door
who did not betray your trust. And you think of the story you told your family
last night about your thief, your righteousness about being robbed.
You feel your belly, her hot shame from being duped, your heart's cloudy fears about whether you can trust yourself. But hearts are courageous and strong,
even as they break. So you wonder, what do you want to say to your anger?
To your thief as he rides off with your horse?
Dear heart, don't fret over the thefts of others. Don't carry their carelessness
as your own. Don't give them the power to harden your heart. And dear friend, please don't tell anyone how you got this money. Don't give anyone another reason to mistrust the stranger at their door. Friend, I'd like to think that if you would've come to me and said, I'm desperate, I don't know what to do, I'm at my wits end – I'd like to think that we could've had tea, that I could've snipped lavender
from my garden for you to take home to your wife. I'd like to think that I could've said, yes, friend, I have enough to share. Of course, friend, yes.

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With a grateful heart, Karly