The red mitten was a beacon; I couldn’t have ignored it. Its crimson softness called out to my peripheral vision like a siren song, a ruby gleaming in the grey November surroundings. It was a solitary, ordinary mitten. Why I was drawn so magnetically to it remains a mystery.
The day was grey and misty and the mitten was spotted by man and dog almost simultaneously. Charlie strained forward on his leash in anticipation of a new found chew toy. I reined him back in, my sixth sense tingling. We were a few miles from the last rest point on the trail – a long walk for the small owner of the mitten. Continue reading