Mittens and Gloves
There's just something about a warm pair of woolen mittens that makes winter beautiful. It's not the snow, though that helps, too. But when I rub my covered hands together and exhale a cloud of hot breath, it makes me think, This is what I've been waiting for. This is the winter I wanted to see.
Admittedly, I can't call myself a fan of the cold, but winter is something I tolerate. Just before Christmas when (and if) the first snow falls, I like to look out the window and watch the earth disappear beneath a world of crystal water. The cold before snow mocks me, but the cold after snow keeps the world like a frozen wonderland filled with sculptures and frosting.
And though that frozen wonderland may seem barren and gray at times, the little tracks through the piles of snow hint at life existing even still: life that belongs to the children begging to build a snowman, life that belongs to tiny animals searching for food, life that belongs to the adults like myself who yearn to feel something when no one is looking.
I slip on my mittens and pull on my hat, and I scoop up a handful of some of the freshly fallen powder. It glimmers like stars when I throw it in the air above me, returning to the ground below like the stardust left behind.
I never feel as warm as I do in the winter.
He prefers gloves. I know this because I knit him a pair of mittens one year, but I've never seen him wear them. But every time we walk out into the frigid air, he pulls some black leather gloves out of his pocket and struggles to get them on. I tell him again and again that mittens are easy to get on because they don't get stuck on fingers.
I know gloves appear more professional to the people who care about that stuff, and maybe I should start to at some point now that I'm older. They just don't have the same effect that mittens do. When I try to make a snowball, it gets crushed between my fingers. But I guess that's the point; mittens are for children, and gloves are for the adults.
There are appearances to uphold. I know that. And especially as a woman in my position, I should be the epitome of class. It's just so nice to remember every once in a while that we were all kids once, too, and just because we're bigger or stronger or wiser now doesn't mean we have to be boring, too.
I should be able to wear my mittens if I want. Gloves just don't feel the same.
Where I live, winter comes late. Sometimes it is considered lucky to have the first snowfall before Christmas or the New Year. Frankly, I consider it good luck to get winter at all. I live in the southernmost region of my country, so the summers burn hot and the winters don't last. Any snowfall melts before the next storm hits.
More than a decade ago as a child, I lived further north of here. Winters spanned months, and the snow melted late into spring. It surprised me to find that my mittens served less of a purpose when I moved here, but it got cold enough to use them still. Less of a purpose remains a purpose, and I suppose it's nice to be needed at all.
"It's freezing," people will mutter when the first frost finally hits, and they will pull on their gloves or rub their bare hands together. But I smile and wiggle my fingers under their blanket of wool, knowing well that the cold means snow will come soon.
But he will look at me with a sideways glance and a half-grin when I do this. "Your cheeks are all red. Are you cold?"
"I'm fine," I always reply because I am and I will be.
We get a late storm this year that hits on the first day of April, well-past the end of our winter and unusual for a region this far south.
The sudden drop in temperature reminds me that I'm not the one in control of the weather. I unpack my mittens and then search through the piles of scarves and hats for gloves. I know him well enough to assume that he packed away his gloves weeks ago, the moment the air became moist with evaporating snow.
Though, I should know myself well enough to realize that I have never owned a pair of gloves in my life.
I can let him dig his gloves out all on his own, which he might if he gets desperate. Or I can try one last time to convince him of the wonders of mittens. It's my world, not his, but I try hard to understand his—surely he can, even if just for a moment, try to understand mine.
There's no harm in trying. If he doesn't like them, he can always go through his clothes after.
I have a pair of purple and white mittens that I knit not long ago with him in mind. I do that sometimes when I know I should not: make things for him even though he won't use them. But if they truly mean that it's the thought that counts, then all of my thoughts about him add up to more than anyone can ever repay.
But I'm not looking for retribution. I never have. As long as he's there and continues to be, that is enough for this girl's heart.
They call it the April Fool's Blizzard, and a blizzard it is.
I hold my mitten-covered hands in front of my face to block the gusts of snowy air that pelt my frost-kissed cheeks. I can see only barely through the white out, but the physical memorization of the path to his home takes over for me. Mossdeep is not particularly large, but it's hilly, which can cause problems.
I trip in one instance and find myself on my hands and knees in a pile of soft snow. We've never had a snowstorm like this in all of the years I lived in Hoenn—hell, we've never had a storm like this in all of the years I've lived, period. This is more typical of the frozen wasteland that is Sinnoh, not the warm tropical Hoenn.
After a moment, I stand again. No one else braves this storm, which makes me wonder why Steven needs the mittens in the first place. Maybe the mittens are just an excuse to see him.
Suddenly I burn, and I trudge through the storm without ever thinking again how cold I am or how much the snow hurts my lips. I am frozen, but my heart remains warm.
The wind howls so loudly around his home, caught right in the middle of a wind tunnel, that not even I can hear the knock I give at his door. I pull my mitten off my right hand and try again, and the thud, thud, thud is louder but just as effective. I slip my hand back into my mitten and jiggle the doorknob. It twists open, and I push with all of my weight to fall into his home.
He has never appeared so warm and cozy before. He sits on his sofa beneath a Mareep-fleece blanket and holds a cup of some sort of steaming beverage. There's no use for fireplaces here in Hoenn, but he has the image of a flame burning on his television. On top of all that, he has a book open on his lap, but the book jacket sits on the coffee table in front of him and is not the science book I expect.
The look he gives me at first is one of surprise; his wide eyes and raised eyebrows indicate the obvious. He seems hesitant to stand, if only because he must be so comfortable right now, but he throws off his blanket and hurries towards me.
"May, you just… you just walked through that storm?" he asks.
I reach into the pocket of my snow-soaked jacket, which drips now that all the flakes have melted in the warmth of his house, and pull out the purple and white pair of mittens. "I b-brought you these." My voice shakes, and I sniffle as my nose begins to run. "I was worried you'd… already put your gloves away."
He stifles a chuckle unsuccessfully. His attempt, involving pursed lips and an odd, stretched-out look, serves only to accelerate his laughter. He puts a hand on my head, touching the little pom-pom on my knitted hat.
"Well, I hardly need those in here, May." He smiles, then pulls the blanket off of himself and wraps it around me, wet clothes and all. I want to tell him that this defeats the purpose of wrapping the blanket around me, but I let him have his moment. "Besides, didn't you hear the forecast for tomorrow? All the snow should melt. It's supposed to be over twenty degrees."
Admittedly I did not read the forecast.
"But it was very kind of you to worry about me." He grabs the mittens from me and slips his hands into them. "Shall I make you a cup of hot chocolate? Only the finest ingredients—boxed mix and microwaved water."
I pull the edges of the fleece blanket to wrap it more tightly around me. Mittens, gloves… it doesn't matter. All that matters is sharing the warmth.
"Sounds perfect, Steven."
Author's Note: For all you Americans reading this, the twenty degrees that Steven mentions is, of course, Celsius.
My original plan was to have this ready for Christmas. I started it back at the beginning of December, and I was like, "Whoa, I better slow down. It'll be ready soon." But then I kind of forgot about it altogether. Still fits a winter theme, anyway. Just a short little one-shot to get me back into writing mode again.
Which side will you take? Mittens... or gloves?