While sorting through old clothes, I came across a small gardening glove that I had bought when my fourteen-year-old son was in kindergarten. Benoît used to ‘help’ me in the garden from the time he was a toddler.
Collecting worms and creating worm families kept him entertained for hours while I happily gardened nearby. There seemed to be endless travel as worm families visited each other in different parts of the garden. Sometimes I felt twinges of guilt for the poor worms, but Benoît handled them so lovingly that I figured they had a good chance of survival once they were underground again.
Looking back now, I wonder why I thought my son would have even the slightest interest in wearing gardening gloves. I do know that I thought little gardening gloves were cute and that is probably why I bought them.
As you can tell from this picture, the glove received little wear. You may well wonder, too, where the matching glove is.
When I enthusiastically handed Benoît the gloves, he was not keen to put them on. He had the same look of horror on his face as he did when I used to try and cajole him into wearing sunglasses. He put on the gloves though without any fuss, and followed me into the garden. I suppose I should have had an inkling then that something was afoot.
I remember we moved some rocks together and eventually Benoît asked if he could go and play. He had a sand pit we called Lac Benoît – I watched him playing and digging there for quite some time before turning to finish placing the rocks. It was always a joy to watch him play – happily singing and chattering away.
As we whiled away the afternoon in the garden, the gloves were all but forgtten. It wasn’t until the next morning as we went to sit in the garden for breakfast that I noticed a glove sitting on Benoît’s little wooden picnic table. When I asked him where the other glove was, he looked at me and said he wasn’t exactly sure. At that point, I figured he might have dropped the glove and that we would find it later.
After breakfast, I did a quick tour around the garden but was unable to find the glove. Hmmm… I asked Benoît again and he still claimed he wasn’t sure where it was. The glove was lost, I thought, and so I tucked away the sole glove thinking that the missing mate would make an appearance later on.
And, turn up it did … the following spring. I remember digging compost into the raspberry and rhubarb patches and coming upon an extremely dirty and soggy gardening glove. Benoît showed absolutely no remorse when I produced his missing glove. When I asked him why he had not told me that he’d buried the glove, he simply said he wasn’t sure where exactly he had buried it.
From then on, I completely forgot about the lone glove until it made a reappearance a few days’ ago. Since then, other moments of recollection have served as reminders of how fleeting time is when children are young. Thankfully, I have a lovely store of memories to draw upon and I know that I will have more memories to add as my son moves through adolescence to adulthood. I also know that I won’t buy him another pair of gardening gloves unless he asks me to!!