I lost my nice black gloves more than a week ago, before the first big snowstorm. When it was, exactly, and how many snows we've had since, well, I've lost count. Some things are better kept in mind as a vague blur. It's snowing and blowing again as I write this.
I guess it was in January, maybe that last Wednesday or Thursday.
That night, I knew I had them while I was at the Patisserie on Newbury, getting a baguette, because I remember tossing them in one of the grocery bags I was shlepping home from the Star along with the bread. I felt warm enough that I didn't need them.
Then it snowed like mad and I didn't go out for a day or two. And then I couldn't find my gloves. I looked hard, in folded-up grocery bags and behind furniture, in coat pockets and under cushions. In the freezer and behind the bread box, and in cabinets — because I knew I'd put them in my grocery bag to carry home, so they must have gotten unpacked with the food in the kitchen.
I went out without any gloves a few times and froze, hoping it might spur me to remember where I'd put them. At this point, I believed they were in the house. My husband thought I was nuts and made withering remarks about my Catholic school upbringing. He also compared me to Bill Belichick, who benches players for showing up half a minute late. I told him I'd taught Belichick everything he knows, keeping my hands carefully in my coat pockets as I said this.
And I kept looking, under the furniture because Harris likes to steal things, including socks.
No gloves. I admitted defeat and dug out my old pair.
I'd been back to the Patisserie a couple of times but it never occurred to me to ask if they'd found any gloves because I remember putting them in that grocery bag and heading home. Yesterday afternoon, I asked. And, lo — there they were, under the counter. It seems they were keeping them around because each of the women who works there thought they belonged to one of the others.
I was delighted, to put it mildly. I admit that I have an entirely untrustworthy memory, a distracted and careless attitude toward possessions, and a husband who thinks I'm weird, but I also have my gloves.