That time someone stole our flag

We moved in the middle of the pandemic.  We started renovating the house.  My wife’s mother moved in with us.  Remote learning was an off/on again unknown in our two-teacher household.  It was strange.  It was stressful.  

The day my wife hung a Black Lives Matter flag, our neighbors across the street looked on.  I wondered if they’d see it as an affront to their less generous public signs. *shrug*

One of the neighbors came over and complimented me on the new flag.  It felt a lot like when someone from a different group comes to your lunch table sophomore year.  Confusing. Inauthentic.  

I awoke at midnight to the sound of engines revving.  The party was over. I took a peak out my bedroom window.  Flag still there.  

One O’Clock rolled around and I awoke again.  I peaked. Flag gone.

I stewed.  I simmered.  I boiled.  

Unwilling to wake my better half to reason with me, I opened the front door and walked across the street.  I stood on the stoop of the triplex.  I knocked.  Looking down, I thought: I don’t even have shoes on.  It’s fine.  I’ll just casually ask “Did you see anything?”  I could feel my heart rate rising.  I knock a second time. What am I doing? I don’t even have a shirt on?!  

So I’m standing there.  Shirtless.  No shoes.  Ready to confront our flag thief.  How exactly is this going to go?  Is it going to get heated?  Am I planning to fight?  

No one answered the door.  I went home. Four days later, I took our 15 foot ladder and hung a new flag.  Higher than the last.

It’s still there.