When I discovered that one of my mittens was missing yesterday as I unloaded my school bags from the car, at first I was confused. I could have sworn that I tossed two mittens into the backseat after carrying them out in an afternoon much warmer than the morning before. I had a clear memory of doing so, but I scoured the interior of my car and all the spaces between it and the front door, and no errant mitten was recovered.
Although it's true that the days when mittens are necessary are numbered, the thought of giving up on a little woolen soldier who had served me so well all winter long was more than galling, and so I hopped back in the car and returned to school, despite the evening traffic. There I checked the area all around my parking space and then retraced my roughly 2000 steps to the building, scanning all the way for my prodigal mitten. When I made it to the door without any luck, I rang the buzzer so I could go in to check my classroom. Still no mitten.
More mystified than dejected, I walked slowly back to my car, past soccer fields, playgrounds, and tennis courts, eyes peeled for a single black marl mitten, alone and abandoned. I never found it.
Oh, I looked again this morning, and I know it will be a long time before I can walk that path without at least a fleeting thought of my mitten. Maybe it's the mystery of such a loss that makes it hard to forget; maybe it's the futility of the search that makes it easy to regret. Maybe that's just the way my brain works, or maybe I am not in the mood to lose anything right now.
Whatever it is? I am having a hard time letting that mitten go.
Although it's true that the days when mittens are necessary are numbered, the thought of giving up on a little woolen soldier who had served me so well all winter long was more than galling, and so I hopped back in the car and returned to school, despite the evening traffic. There I checked the area all around my parking space and then retraced my roughly 2000 steps to the building, scanning all the way for my prodigal mitten. When I made it to the door without any luck, I rang the buzzer so I could go in to check my classroom. Still no mitten.
More mystified than dejected, I walked slowly back to my car, past soccer fields, playgrounds, and tennis courts, eyes peeled for a single black marl mitten, alone and abandoned. I never found it.
Oh, I looked again this morning, and I know it will be a long time before I can walk that path without at least a fleeting thought of my mitten. Maybe it's the mystery of such a loss that makes it hard to forget; maybe it's the futility of the search that makes it easy to regret. Maybe that's just the way my brain works, or maybe I am not in the mood to lose anything right now.
Whatever it is? I am having a hard time letting that mitten go.
If you can hold out hope for the woolen soldier—this reminds me of the miraculous recovery of my glove in Maine.
ReplyDeleteLoved the words you used to describe the mitten - errant, prodigal, black marl mitten. Great slice.
ReplyDeleteYou really do have an attachment to your mittens. (See Dec.14, 2013) Even so, I hope this one finds its way back to you.
ReplyDelete