Stolen

A family friend, journeying through Europe for Thanksgiving week, sat down to lunch with his traveling companions—his camera, his lenses, his memory sticks stowed inside a camera bag and tucked into a nook near his feet. At his table at this outdoor cafe, they were drinking mango juice. They were exclaiming over some trinket found that morning at the market. My friend leaned forward to take a better look. In that instant, his camera bag was stolen.

All of that equipment, but also, every single photograph.

Ever since I heard the story I have been feeling robbed myself. Incapable of stealing inside the mind of a thief like that, of a stranger who would pilfer memories from an 80-year-old man. What conscience would allow it? Where might a thief find the speed with which to flee, with the treasure of another in his hands? We can't write the world until we understand it, but here is yet another thing I cannot comprehend. How it feels in the moment, how it feels afterward, to invade the simple trust of a man.