It wasn’t the first time I visited my father’s grave, but something about that day felt different.
The air was cooler, silence heavier. It was a month since his death, a month of restless nights and regretful thoughts. When I stood there, he stared at a simple tombstone, I felt the weight of all unresolved things between us. But what really attracted me was not the tombstone itself-it was a small pair of handicane gloves carefully placed on its base.
I stood in front of my father’s grave and wrapped my hands around me to bounce off the cold.
It was a month. One month since his death. A moon full of sleepless nights.
When I crouched to clean the fallen leaves from the base of his tombstone, I saw something unusual – a small pair of red knitted gloves, neatly placed on its tombstone.
They were small as if they were created for a child. The wool was soft and looked handmade. Maybe someone accidentally left them by mistake, or maybe they belonged to someone who visited another grave.
“Hey, Dad.” My voice waved, but I pushed. “I know … I know we did not end well.” I exhaled the shaking. “But I hope you knew I still loved you.”
My father raised me alone. I never knew my mother; She died when I was a child.
He constantly worked and spent long hours under his cars in his repair shop, mask his hands, and his hands on his head and sweat. He never complained and always made sure I had everything I needed.
For a long time I thought he was the wisest person in the world.
Then I met Mark.
Mark laughed at me, I felt safe. He loved me in a way that made me want to spend my whole life with him.
But Dad did not approve.
This led to our first argument.
The second was worse.
I just started my first serious nursing work in the nursing facility. I was excited and proud. But when I told my father, he looked at me as if I had destroyed my future. His jaw tightened. “You throw away your life.”
That night I packed my bags and left.
I thought he would call. I was hoping to realize his mistake in time and reach out.
But he never did.
And even I
It was too late now.
A week after my first visit I returned to my father’s grave.
This time I found a few blue crocheted gloves.
I gently placed them next to the red gloves from the previous week and put them on the grass. Maybe it was a relative I didn’t know. Maybe it was a tradition I didn’t know about.
I came back next week to find another few gloves. Pink this time. Then, the next week, a green couple. Then yellow.
It has become an obsession. I arrived for one week earlier than usual before the sun immersed the trees.
But this time I found a boy.
He stood at the grave of my father, about 13 years. He was thin, wearing worn clothes and holding another few gloves – this time, purple. I stiffened.
I took a step forward, the gravel crushed under the shoes. His head jumped and turned.
“Hey, wait!” I called and accelerated my pace.
I stopped a few steps since then, careful not to scare him.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
He did not answer immediately. After a while he finally whispered, “Lucas.”
When I reached out of the gloves, my hand shook. The moment my fingers were brushing the fabric, the memories threw themselves back. I wore these gloves as a child. “My dad gave me it two years ago. It was really cold winter and I had no gloves.
I wiped my eyes. “Would you allow me to buy me from you?”
I took a deep breath. “Because … they were mine once. And they were his then. Just … I need them back.”
“He loved you,” Lucas said quietly. “He forgave you a long time ago. Just … he hoped you would forgive him too.”
My father never stopped loving me and maybe he knew I would never stop loving him.
Conclusion
When I stood there, clutching the gloves, the weight of everything I lost, and everything I left began to settle. It was as if my father, even after death, found a way to send me a message through Lucas – an unspecified reminder of the love he had for me, despite everything.
The gloves, now handed over to this boy, symbolized something much deeper than just cold winter. They were a bridge – a quiet offer of forgiveness and hope for reconciliation, although time and pride divided us.
Lucas, with his simple words, unlocked the door I thought was long closed. My father never stopped loving me and maybe, in a way, he had forgiven me long ago. He always hoped to forgive him one day.
The pain of our unresolved past still persisted, but now there was a feeling of peace. I no longer had to stick to anger or regret. My father’s love and his silent wishes after forgiveness came to me – through small gloves, through Lucas, and through understanding that sometimes it was never too late to heal.