Pink knitted gloves

     Her hands were covered with pink knitted gloves her mother made for her last birthday. They fit perfectly in his leather gloves like a ball in a catchers mitt. They held hands like they always did wherever they may be. Covered in the cold, sweaty in the heat but perfect every day. They discovered the meaning of true love at the tender age of sixteen. Each kiss like a sweet soft expression of feelings being unleashed for the first time. Every touch gentle and exploring always finding new and different ways of showing each other the wonders of new love. He would walk her home from school dances, and football games then return home smelling his upper lip, the scent of her kisses staying with him on his journey home. The first time they made love took hours as they both knew it would remain with them for as long as they breathed life, and neither wanted to let that time ever be forgotten.

     Time and circumstance drew them apart as their teenage years flew past them, but the memories stayed as vivid as the times themselves. She passed at a very young age of a disease not yet understood back then, and a part of him died with her. He went on with life, marrying and raising children, always remembering the tenderness of their first love and stolen kisses under a mighty oak snow mixing with her tears of happiness. He goes back home every year around the time of her birthday taking flowers to her grave and gently touching her headstone with a gentleness only she understood. He's old now and the visits not as frequent, but he speaks to her often knowing that one day not too long from now she will greet him with an outstretched hand in pink knitted gloves.

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