February 26, 2008
By Amy Lipton, Mason, OH

Out of the corner of my eye, the old dusty, dark corner of my closet illuminates to reveal an old familiar object. Its contour shape I know very well. It has been years since I’ve even touched it let alone give it even the quick glance. It just stays stagnate up there on the top shelf collecting dust and no more. But it will never run out of my memory. It remains there forever, never to be broken.

I remember it well. The dark, worn out, used leather. The small hole that began to form on the bottom left corner from over use. I remember that summer we went to the park almost everyday. Your bright flaming red hair skipping down the street with glee, it hung down over your right broad shoulder, awaiting our arrival at the park to begin the game with the other kids. Phoebe by your side, tugging on your new, gray t-shirt saying, “let me play let me play.” The smell of fresh cut grass. Boy do I love that smell. It followed us all the way to the park that day. Do you remember?

I remember the smile. It stretched all the way across your tan, blissful face. Boy that smile. I know it well. It was always there no matter what. You knew your circumstances, but still the smile. The laugh. Boy do I remember that loud joyful laugh. It rumbled my brain and found its way into my heart. The way you would laugh so hard you would almost fall out of your chair. What a laugh. I think it’s the best one I’ve ever heard. I don’t know how you did it. I still wonder over it today. But that’s what makes you so great you know. That’s why when I think of you I know you were about a thousand times nicer than anyone I know. There’s not much left of you now. Some dopy, sad flowers lay on your stomach. And the glove.

Its crisp out-line becomes clear again. I give it the glance, fighting the water accumulating in my eyes. The leather worn, the color fading, and the stitching finding its way out. A closer look. The left handed glove outstretched still, still reaching for more. The green ink scribbles across the fingers and pocket. Oh the songs that ink sings. The beautiful language decrypted covering the entire glove. Only the good ones are on there. The ones that make you feel that warm fuzzy feeling. I don’t get that much but these words make you do.

I remember the way you used to stand out in the field. When the home was absent of its batter I found your bright red hair and no face. It was down staring into this glove. You read the green ink. It sung to you. It made you feel that way and all. Like this one that’s written across the thumb:

Sounds of trains in the surf

in subways of the sea

And an even greater undersound

of a vast confusion in the universe
That green ink still runs across the glove. The bright green ink crisp against that leather surface. Not much is left of you now. But this glove is still in the dark corner on the top shelf of my closet here at Pencey. I don’t know how much longer it will be there before it gets thrown in a box and onward to another location, yet again, something I know you would never do. But I still have this here glove and all. It will stay with my forever along with the laugh and the smile and the flaming red hair. Boy what a boy you were.

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