The glove cemetery

Finally the day was green. It is a weird statement to make, as the usual description of a day is bright, dark, dull, rainy, and cloudy. But the day was green. After endless months of white, puffy snow everywhere around, that made all the spruces look like Santa Claus is in town during April, the day was green. No more snow, no more the clear white powder on the trees. You could see their needles and leafs dancing in the morning wind. The sound of their movement had left no room for other interpretation. Finally, we are free. Finally, we can move, finally we are as light as feathers. Finally, we are green, whispered with joy.

The truth is that the green needles are not the only ones to be free again. Now, the snow melted away and became one with the thirsty ground, more things could rejoice for reappearing in the mortal world again. The wet ground, the dead small bushes waiting to resurrect. The gloves.

The gloves were everywhere. Hanging in the bushes, laying on the ground, covered in mood, wet and lonely. They were everywhere and they looked like they were dead. The gloves where the casualties of the winter, of the snow, of the cold air. Who lost them in the snow to never find them again? Did they fall out of the pocket? Were they blown away while a small child tried to year them? Did a drunk owner removed to smoke and forgot they ever existed?

No one will know the story of the gloves. As the spring comes, and everything rejoice for the new life they are going to live, the gloves will remain there on the ground. They will be as silent as the dead. And everyone else will sing about spring and sun and sunny days across a glove cemetery.

AN: The idea came from a friend of mine. We were walking around and the first days after the snow had melted, you could see everywhere forgotten gloves. Then, he made the remark that it looks like a glove cemetery. 


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