I love my gloves.
I bought them six or seven years ago at the local supermarket. I believe they cost $6. Maybe $7.
Are they quality gloves? Hardly. They’re made of cheap knit. They’re beige, but now have a grimy, dirty glaze. There’s a “grip,” though it’s not actually a grip at all. It’s a piece of black fake leather, stitched across the inside.
I love my gloves for one reason: Humanity’s oddball loyalty to inanimate objects. Just as I can’t throw away my EARL T-shirt that the wife and I made during our engagement. Just as I still have a long-sleeve grey undershirt with 1,000 holes from the late 1980s. I am loyal to inanimate objects, just as fans love Superman and Luke Skywalker and Hello Kitty. We give these things affection. They give us, well, something.
Anyhow, a horrible thing happened yesterday. I returned home after a long day’s work, reached into my jacket pocket—only one glove. Looked everywhere. Up. Down. Left. Right. One of the gloves was gone. I was heartbroken. This glove and I had been everywhere together. Top of the driveway. Bottom of the driveway. School dropoff. Everywhere.
About an hour ago I was leaving the gym. While crossing the street, I glanced down. My glove was in the middle of the street, flattened as if it’d be steamrolled by a construction vehicle. I looked at it as one would a lost child. “Glove? Is that you?” I picked him up, caressed him, returned him to the car.
I think he’s going to be OK.