Of Love and Lost Things

I have these gloves.

These stupid fucking amazing gloves, that I wear all of the time. Every time I go somewhere new. Every time I go exploring for the first time.

They’ve got rainbow squids on them.

The left one has a giant, rainbow R on the palm of it. The right one has a giant, rainbow L.

They’re my driving gloves, because I fail at knowing the difference between left and right, pretty much every time.

They’re my second pair.

I got the first pair because I failed my driving pre-test three times because I didn’t know left from right.

So, one of my best friends called me up and told me to go to her house before my test. I knocked on her door, and she gave me this pair of black, fingerless gloves, that had been covered with rainbow embroidery thread. R on the left palm, L on the right.

I think I got 92% on my drive test that day?

I lost that pair of gloves when I went to theatre school.

I called my friend. I think I cried.

The next thing I knew, I had a care package, full of pictures and strange manga about cooking and plastic hamburgers, and a new pair of gloves.

One of the most beautiful moments of my life was when I was in England, and I was talking with one of my favourite eccentric professors. (He’s more than a bit obsessed with medieval locking mechanisms.) He said something about the requirements of “Acedemia”. I said that I wasn’t particularly interested in “Academia” and he said “Well of course you’re not.” and pointed to my gloves and said “You’ve got squids and shit!”

I’ve lost my second pair of gloves.

I think I left them on the plane to Taiwan.

And, it’s fine, because they’re just things, and shit happens.

But every time I put them on, it felt like those moments when my friend would grab my hand and pull me along into some magical new experience that I’d never thought of before.


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