Abandoned and forsaken, wet and dirty, from
the shrinking snow bank.
After wringing it out, it lay in my hand
like a dead bird - a forgotten dream - a lost child. Childhood innocence
emanated from the dulled pinks, whites and blues of the variegated yarn.
My heart saddened as I envisioned a little
girl vainly attempting to explain how it must have fallen out of her
pocket on the way home from school.
I pictured a mom fighting to maintain
self-control, while recalling spending two days struggling to knit one
pair from some yarn she had been given, because the store-bought mitts
were just too expensive.
Memories surfaced of my own children who, by the
end of winter, always seemed to have had an assortment of mismatched
My lips twisted into a wry smile as I thought of
the many times my mother made strings to pass through my coat sleeves to
connect my knitted mittens.
I slowly and gently placed the tiny article
on a nearby fence post, and idly mused if its owner would discover it as
easily as I found my lost mitten memories.