The Dotted Glove

I climbed up onto the low wooden bench near the fence. A thick canvas glove was resting flat on the sun-warmed slats. I stopped and waited for the breeze to pass. Then I reached out with both hands. The small blue rubber dots across the palm felt raised, firm, and slightly grippy against my plush skin. I pressed down, feeling each bump resist my weight. Slowly, I folded the soft ribbed cuff over, peering into the quiet hollow inside. It smelled like dry garden soil.