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Gone Glove, Found Glove

A single glove.  A lone shoe.  A solitary sock...haphazardly strewn about parking lots, beaches and the side of a road.  You might wonder, as I do, where is that footwear's owner?  Did they hurl it in a violent rage?  Was it wrestled away by a rabid coyote?  This is the story of one (not-so) long-lost glove that made its way home.

Since I've already given away the ending, it's probably best to start there. 

Friends were visiting from afar.  As with most, we've shifted our list of typical activities to more open-air options.  We explored a beach I rarely go to...traversing a part of the shore I'd never been to.  We hustled over tree trunks strewn from distant rivers and gingerly made our way through the slippery rocks that smelled of low tide.  It was a clear-skied day and our eyes were fixed on the many hues of greens,  blues and grays.  Trees.  Ocean.  Sky.  Rocks.  While we enjoyed the company of long-lost friends, we collected plastic that washed ashore from who-knows-where.  Just down the beach.  Across an ocean. 

Lo and behold, I spotted a black glove. 

Not just any glove.  My missing glove.  The glove that the wind had carried off the bow of a sailboat the day before. Four tidal cycles ago.  Eight miles away.  

My favorite glove. 

Small rocks had gathered inside.  Sand filled in the rest.  There it lay, looking to any stranger like it might contain an amputated hand.  But it was not any stranger who spied that glove.  It was a girl with both hands quite attached.  And those hands were in the air, vibrating with excitement as her lungs squealed with joy.  


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