The Red Mitten

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