I stood in front of my father’s g.r.a.v.e, arms wrapped around myself to combat the cold.
One month. It had been a month since his d.e.a.t.h. One month of sleepless nights.
I crouched down and brushed fallen leaves away from the base of the stone. That’s when I noticed a small pair of red-knitted gloves lying neatly on his tombstone.
They were small as if they belonged to a child. The wool was soft and handcrafted.
Perhaps someone left them by mistake. Perhaps they belonged to someone visiting another bu:rial.
“Hey, Dad.” My voice cracked, but I kept going. “I know… I know we didn’t end things on good terms.” I let out a shaky breath. “But I hope you knew I still loved you.”
My father reared me alone. I never met my mother; she d.i.e.d when I was a baby.
He worked hard, spending long days under automobiles in the repair shop with grease under his nails and sweat on his forehead. He never complained or ignored a bill, and he always made sure I had everything I needed.
And for a long time, I believed he was the world’s wisest man.
Then, I met Mark.
Mark made me laugh. He made me feel safe. And he loved me in a way that made me want to spend my entire life with him.
However, Dad did not approve.
It was the first fight.
The second was worse.
I had just started my first serious nursing job at a nursing facility. I was excited and proud. But when I informed Dad, he stared at me as if I had thrown my future away.
His jaw stiffened. “You’re throwing your life away.”
That night, I packed my bags and walked out.
I assumed he would call. I hoped that after a few weeks, he would realize his mistake. That he’d reach out.
Yet he never did.
Neither did I.
But now it was… too late.
A week after my first visit, I went back to my father’s g.r.a.v.e.
That’s when I noticed a pair of crocheted mittens. This time around, they were blue.
I set the mittens near the red pair from the last time, resting them on the grass. Perhaps it was a relative I did not know. Perhaps it was a tradition I was unaware of.
The following week, I returned and discovered another pair of gloves. Pink this time. The following week, there was a green pair. Then yellow.
It became an obsession. The following week, I arrived earlier than usual, well before the sun fell behind the trees.
But instead, I discovered a boy.
Standing in front of my father’s g.r.a.v.e, he appeared to be about the age of 13. He was thin, with somewhat worn garments and another set of gloves in his small hands.
This time around, they were purple. I froze.
I took a step closer, my boots crunching on the gravel. His head snapped upward. He turned to go.
“Hey, wait up!” I called, picking up my pace.
I paused a few steps away, not wanting to scare him away.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
For a moment, he did not respond. Finally, in a low, hesitant voice, he whispered, “Lucas.”
I grabbed the gloves with shaky hands. As soon as my fingertips touched the smooth fabric, a flood of memories rushed over me. I had worn them as a child many years ago.
“Your dad gave them to me two years ago. It was really cold that winter, and I didn’t have any gloves. My hands were freezing.”
I said, wiping my face. “Would you let me buy these from you?”
“Because,” I said, my voice breaking, “they were mine once. And they were his after that. I just… I need them back.”
“He loved you,” Lucas said gently. “He forgave you a long time ago. He just… he hoped you had forgiven him too.”
Dad never stopped loving me, and perhaps he knew I never stopped loving him.
