Texture

In the back of an antique shop, there sat a strange pair of gloves.

“These are gloves that preserve ‘texture’,” the shopkeeper said.

The shopkeeper said so.

Half-doubting, the man put on the gloves.

He touched an old desk. Then, suddenly, along with the rough feel of the wood, the intense summer sun came to his mind.

When he was in elementary school. It was a memory of lying face down on this desk while hating his homework.

The man was surprised and touched one object after another.

A station bench. His late father's fishing rod. A mug left behind by his ex-wife.

Each one, along with its “texture,” brought back memories he had forgotten.

Finally, the man put his hand into the pocket of his coat.

At his fingertips, he felt the texture of a small piece of cloth.

It was his daughter's glove.

It was from the day last year when she lost one at the amusement park and went home crying.

At that moment, the man remembered.

That day, he had been so preoccupied with work calls that he had barely held his daughter's hand.

The man left the shop quietly.

And when he returned home, he gently held his sleeping daughter's hand.

The small hand was surprisingly warm.