One Red Mitten

In the middle of the snowy park, right by the swings, lay one little red mitten.

Just one. All alone in the snow, like a small red boat with no sea.

Milo picked it up.

Somewhere in this park, somebody had one warm hand and one cold, cold hand. And cold hands can’t wait.

Milo went to the boy on the slide. “Is this your mitten?”

The boy held up two blue mittens. “Mine are blue! Both of them!”

Not his.

Milo went to the twins making a snowman. “Is this your mitten?”

The twins held up four green mittens between them. “Green! See? Green, green, green, green!”

Not theirs.

Milo went to the dog. The dog sniffed the mitten very seriously, wagged, and had no mittens at all, because dogs bring their fur.

Not his — but the dog came along to help, because that is what dogs are for.

And then, over by the bench, Milo heard it. A small sound. A sniffly sound.

A little girl sat with her Mama, crying the cold-hand cry, holding up one bare pink hand. And on her OTHER hand —

— a little red mitten. Just like the one Milo was holding.

“Excuse me,” said Milo, holding it out. “I think your mitten was at the swings. It must have jumped off.”

The little girl stopped crying in the middle of a sniff. The cold pink hand dove into the red mitten, deep and warm, all the way in.

She smiled the biggest smile — first at her hands, then at Milo.

“Say thank you to the kind boy,” said her Mama.

“Fank you,” said the little girl.

Milo felt something warm spread in his chest — warmer than mittens, warmer than two mittens, warmer even than hot chocolate — and it stayed warm all the way home through the snow.

That’s the funny thing about warming up somebody’s hands.

It’s your own middle that gets warm.