Two Gloves

I have a pair of leather grilling gloves that I repurposed to become thistle gloves. The invasive musk thistle I am removing from my grounds is fiercely protective and the gloves are the only way I can handle the thistles as I dig them up. The other day I lost the right glove. It simply disappeared. Not unusual because usually I handle the thistles with my left hand with the turning fork in the right. None of that is the point.

This is. In my youth and even into middle age losing that glove, misplacing it, would have sparked up a bit of a rage. And if you think I’m overstating it. I’m not. It wouldn’t have been anger. It was rage. Even now it’s hard to write about it because those episodes felt so cataclysmic. Luckily, they just involved me being really unpleasant, cursing, and stomping about. But I’m certain the family, if they were around noticed, and backed away. Not really the husband and father you’d like to be.

I wish they could see me now. This time when I saw the glove was missing I simply assumed it would turn up. That was about three weeks ago. As predicted, it did. As I was mowing the other day, I drove by the big flowerpots that flank the little gate to my neighbor’s yard, and there was the glove. I retrieved it. As I did, I thought about all those opportunities I missed to be a better man for my wife and my kids. But if there’s any saving grace at least I knew it was wrong and worked to fix it, even if it took a long, long time.