The mittens create such teddy-bear hands, so soft to cuddle. They are the colours of nurseries, the pastel shades that greet so many newborns, those new sparks of life that grow to the children and young adults we adore. I touch my face with the mitten. Though it is new it brings memories too, the good ones of fun with those I once loved and still do. Then I hear my name from the street and turn, waving as he comes down the path.
Lily held out cherry-red hands wide for a hug, her mittened hands looking so sweet and comical. The extra-thick wool and elaborate stitching made them look so much larger than usual, but that was Uncle Bill, always showing his love through knitwear.
The mittens in the brown paper had that home-knit look. Sam picked them up and turned them over in his hands, letting his eyes roam freely over every stitch so lovingly made. He raised his eyes to Pamela, who had that look in her eye, caught between pride and fear of rejection, about to say how they were simple to make, or it was really nothing at all. Before she could speak he raised his hand to her face, touching lightly, tilting her head up just a little. "They're amazing, best birthday gift ever."
Rory stood there in mitten covered hands, snow clinging in small lumps to stray fibres, pristine white over the charcoal grey. His face was different though, as if that grey world of his had somehow sprung hope. With a half-smile and eyes that promised a rising sense of warmth, he stepped in from the wintry-morn and shook the mittens off one at a time. Then with both of them in one hand, the snow rapidly melting to give them a washed-look, he wrapped his arms around me, as if I was his gift and he wanted nothing more than to be close.
The mittens lay on the radiator, warm and dry. It was where Clara always put them, there with her woollen hat and scarf. They had the look of knitwear that had aged a bit, the once neat rows adorned with lumps and bumps, much like the look of a lamb in spring fields. I don't think I ever saw her in winter without them, and she wore them into spring too, until the weather warmed our skin and called the flowers from the earth. I think she must have liked the feeling of those mittens, something cosy, as if her hand was held and warmed by another. Or maybe it was a hark back to a childhood passed, to the days making snowmen in the backyard. Either way, it was her, beautiful Clara, always looking cosy inside and out.
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