Short Story Sunday: The Pink Glove

The pink glove lay on the ground, almost covered. Mark kicked at a season's leaves to expose it. It looked like a wet marshmallow and was stained with the veins of oak leaves and rain. He leant down and snapped it with his Canon. He would caption this "Lost Childhood".


There was something magical about finding discarded human clothing once nature had had her way. Shoes curled up at the toes and split from their soles; hats frayed at the brims, the decay seeming to mock whatever slick logo they previously brandished. But it was rare for him to find a glove; he imagined this one had slipped out of a young girl's pocket when she attempted the monkey bars to his left. Mark adjusted the focus of his shot, homing in on the fibres and pattern of his discovery. He suspected that it was a cotton or yarn blend as the stitches, although tight, looked crocheted rather than the product of a machine. It made him think of cocoa, grandmothers and love, the very things he'd dreamt of during his long childhood at St Vincent's Home for Boys. The light changed as the clouds began their race inland and Mark noticed a ladybird moving across the palm of the glove. He tracked it with his camera, noticing how it stopped and languished in the sunny spots; he envied the simplicity of that kind of existence.

Mark checked his watch. He had to move if he was to submit the photo essay on time. As he trekked back through the park where toddlers and seagulls shrieked, he marvelled at their joy. He had been an adult for so long that he had forgotten what it felt like to be carefree. He stopped when he felt a tug at his coat and was met by a blue puffer jacket. It was pointing to a soccer ball lodged in a tree.

"Is that your ball?"
The puffer jacket nodded.
"Do you want me to get it for you?"
"Please, uncle! Please!" A chorus of boys under the tree called to him.
Uncle. The title seemed to suit him. "All right, boys. Give me a moment." The puffer jacket ran to join his friends. Mark marched to the tree and, with a bit of manoeuvring, knocked the ball down.
"Thanks, uncle! Thanks!" The boys resumed their game.
He felt a familiar tug. It was the puffer jacket.
"Do you want to play?"
Mark's eyes stung. "Yes, please." He knew his photo essay would be late but it would be worth the tongue-lashing if, in some small way, he could recreate his childhood for an afternoon.