Five little fingers, tiny and pink, slowly open then close. They search blindly for something to grasp in this world, so strange and so new. Five tiny fingers, circle my thumb, holding tight to the one thing they will always count on, me.
Five little fingers, never happy until they are ripping pots from cupboards or struggling to fit into electrical outlets. Fingers that can change any man-made substance into a gooey mess, at the blink of an eye. Five tiny digits, searching for anything valuable or dangerous, always stopping my heart for a second.
Five little fingers, that stroke my face while whispering ‘I love you’ in my ear. Five tiny fingers, balled into a fist, beating a tantrum on a supermarket floor, as an alien voice screams, ‘I HATE YOU!’ Both of which made me cry.
Five tiny fingers, addicted to making snowmen, who howl in protest when I encase them in knitted wool gloves.
Now, those pink gloves are stained dull by a thousand adventures. The cocooning strands of warming fleece, fending off the evils of the world. A glove that lies innocent and alone. I bend to pick it up. I stroke a grass stain, remembering the laughter that ensued at its creation. I pinched the delicate materiel and feel the stitching give under the pressure of my touch. A glove should never be alone, it’s made for a partner. Alone, a pink glove, can be an abomination.
Five little fingers, never to play the piano, or swim in a pool, or hold hands with a boy, or to be gripped in the midst of a tango. Five little fingers, destroyed by the hate that stains the hearts of men.
I sniff the glove hoping to smell her still, but all I can smell is smoke, explosive residue, and death. I look around at a wasteland of shattered buildings, and twisted metal. All color is bleached from the world, from my life, save for this tiny speck of rose. How could a single pink glove survive perfectly, while the five little fingers, which had fitted so snugly inside, died?