MY BRUSH WITH VANDALISM'
Dew on the grass sparkling like crystals, a man walking his dog, church chimes softly ringing in the distance, all created a surreal atmosphere on my drive home from work at 7:30am. My night duty was through for the week and it was Sunday morning. A quick rest and then maybe a drive to see the boats or off somewhere to enjoy supper with friends was what occupied my mind. This June day promised to be hot, the air already still and heavy.

After working a twelve-hour night shift I was exhausted, but such a beautiful scene developed before my eyes with every kilometer of my drive I couldn't help but feel energized and appreciative of the fact that I now had four precious days off to do with as I wished.

But it was not to be. Some unknown persons had stolen my days, created a sense of unease and a bundle of work and tears for me and my family in the days ahead. It was so senseless that to this day I go over it in my mind and wonder why someone would do such a thing.
I turned my car up the street where our little grey bungalow sat surrounded by large willow trees and a row of pines, all tenderly cared for by our family and neighbors. But this morning a different set of shadows seemed to be falling across the front of my house with its huge front window made up of twenty panes of glass. The shadows looked odd, and I had driven this route hundreds of times before and not seen such a picture as this. As I pulled in the driveway, I was shocked, beyond belief, to see that these were not shadows, our house was covered in spray paint and filthy words written by that paint.

References to Hitler, the little panes saying Heil Hitler', the words saying
"We got you good this time sir," the filth too dreadful to reprint. I wondered later if they even knew who Hitler' was and what he had done to the world.
I stood outside my car and looked around at the silent neighborhood. Then I noticed the broken window pane, the tires flat on the vehicles in our driveway, and then I remembered my husband, who was home, hardly ever locked the door, and how did he not hear any of this? What had happened to him? The worse case scenarios raced through my tired, trauma exposed nurses' mind. I ran toward the door and into our house.

Everything seemed just as it would be, the only thing out of place was a golf ball on the floor, something not commonly seen in our home.
I went toward the bedroom and spoke my husbands' name and he said "Hi, are you tired?"

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