The Tale of the Missing Mitten

Once upon a time, there was a mitten. A little red mitten.

The mitten knew very little about himself. He knew that he was little. He knew that he was red. He knew that he fit exclusively on the left hand of a small boy with red hair. He knew he had a mate who was just like himself, only backward, for the little boy's right hand.

One thing the little mitten did not know was where he was.

This was new for him, as there were only a few places the mitten had ever been: In a pocket, in a bag, resting on a bench to dry, clipped nicely to a jacket, and, of course, on the left hand of the little boy.

Except for once, when he spent a few days stuck to the floor of the car.

But today, the mitten was in none of those places. He did not know where he was. This was not that troubling, as a mitten doesn't have much sense of place, or knowledge of the world, generally speaking.

What was more troubling was the fact that no one else seemed to know where he was, either.

He knew they were looking for him: His little boy, his little boy's mama and dada. He could hear them.

"Where is your other mitten?" Mama asked that morning.

"uh ... I don't know." The little boy had said. And he did not. The mitten could hear them rustling around. Looking under things. Looking in things. But still, they did not find them.

The little mitten heard the family -- and his little boy -- leave for school, only a right-handed mitten in their possession.

"Well, maybe it is at school," Mama had hoped.

But the little mitten was not at school. He was not in the car. He was not in the snow along the walkway.

The little mitten did not know where he was. And no one else did either.

"Well dammit, I know it's in here somewhere," Mama had swore later that night, looking in closets and underneath cabinets. "Maybe it ended up in the laundry."

The adults sorted laundry and came back, mittenless. The little boy lamented not having his mitten that day, as it had been cold and his hands had gotten wet.

The little mitten knew how he felt. He was also cold, and felt a little wet. Wherever he was, it was not warm and dry. The mitten wanted to be back on his bench drying, or clipped nicely to a jacket. He did not like his new spot in the cold and dark.

Dada gave up, and proceeded to tuck the little boy into his bed, thinking perhaps he would dream and remember where he had put his mitten.

Mama gave up, too, and proceeded to move on to other tasks, sweeping and cleaning and sorting, with a small hope that the mitten would show up under the bed, or randomly in the bathtub.

It did not.

But then -- a ray of hope. A light was cast upon the little mitten in his hiding place. A stream of warm air beat against him and he realized, the front door had open! There was mama, coming through the door to throw something in the garbage can. And she turned, glancing by happenstance at the top of the outside bench. The bench upon which she had piled the school things the day before, before tackling the growing snow hill on the sidewalk.
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The bench upon which sat the little red mitten.

"Oh, sonofabitch," Mama said, picking up the little mitten and feeling his icy thumb.

She carried him inside and placed him with the little boy's other winter things, satisfied to finally have solved the mystery.

The little mitten felt his insides warming and he snuggled down into a pair of snowpants, quite satisfied to be home again.

But wait, where was the little right-handed mitten?

"Oh, f*ck it all," Mama said.