The Haunting Mit

I bumped into Holden at the library one time. I noticed he was sitting like a recluse by himself in the corner, with a baseball glove clad with writting in his hand. I depicted every detail on the leather that was abrasively worn, listening to him whispering poetry and grimacing as he did.

I surmised that he was profoundly touched by what he read, by a cursory glance at his expression. It impelled me to go over there and ask him about the mitt. As I endeavored to approach him in an affable manner, and said hello, "Pardon me," I whispered to not break the electrifying silence, "It was intriguing to me why you were reading poetry from your baseball glove in a library, so I decided to come over here and ask you about it."

"It’s my little brothers" he replied, "he used to write poetry on it when he'd go up on the field, you know, to have something to read while he's up there and all."

"That's very interesting! He sounds like a very conscientious and sage young man."

"He was. Allie passed away four years ago." You could tell how despondent he felt by the look in his eyes. "He's in a better place now," he replied, leaving that statement reverberating in my mind was tremulous about his reaction to my query. "Oh, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to--I don’t--I--"its okay," he added, "I'm Holden." And that was where our interminable conversation began, where Holden told me the story of Allie's gruesome death, and the excruciating pain he went through with his loss.