(image/poem by Richard Canard)
One day a man comes at me out of nowhere brandishing a knife. Wow, just like that, I'm being mugged. I immediately take out my purse to show him that I won't resist. He can have everything I have, which turns out to be about seventy dollars in cash. But people are surprising. They always want something different than what you think they want. Oh, they'll take what you give them, but then they go ahead and also take what they wanted all along.
What the mugger wants is to cut me open. When he's done this, he reaches inside me and removes a single star. The star is suspended inside an orb-shaped golden aura. It is quite remarkable. I had no idea there was such a thing inside me, no clue that such a thing was ever "mine" to lose. I almost feel as if I should thank my attacker for showing me this wonder.
I go to the police station afterwards. I don't really feel like it. But it seems a necessary part of the story, the next thing you are supposed to do under the circumstances; neither my heart nor my hopes are in it, however. The detective assigned to my case patiently takes down my statement, recording it word for word. I don't need to be told that these sorts of crimes are seldom—if ever—solved. I will never recover my star or whatever it was.
In truth, I can't say that I miss what was taken or that I even notice it's missing. I feel exactly the same now as I did before the attack except for the knowledge that I saw with my own eyes that something was violently ripped away from me. And I feel the complicated knot of emotions, not entirely unpleasant, that this knowledge calls up in me from time to time.
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