It is his baseball mitt, my brother’s. Left-handed fielder’s mitt; he was left-handed. The brown leather, with green letters written all over it, touching the palm of my hand every time I pick it up, always gets my eyes watery. He used to write poems in shiny green ink around it; through the fingers and all. Really old Walt Whitman and Robert Frost poems that used to bore me, but he just loved them. My brother adored poetry, because he could learn so much from it. He wrote it on the mitt so when he was bored in the field, or no one was up at bat, he could read it. It always gave him good luck, he was the best player on the team thanks to that mitt and the poems written in green, he would say.
It was his biggest treasure, that mitt. I remember it was burning outside, the day he got it, the sun flashing in our eyes. We were out for a walk that hot summer afternoon near Central Park, Thomas and I; we got along pretty well. We had stopped for a hotdog in those stands near the subway station. I found myself devouring my hotdog when I suddenly saw Thomas running towards the other side of the road. From more than two miles away, that baseball mitt had cached his attention. Boy, he had incredible eyesight.
The mitt was sitting in one of the stands inside of the famous Sports Shop, visible from the outside. It was all new and shiny, and smelled like pure leather, that mitt. Thomas wanted it; I could see it in his eyes. It was a pretty expensive baseball glove and crap. But I knew Thomas; his dream was to become a professional baseball player. So I bought the stupid mitt for him.
He was the nicest person I ever met, my brother, Thomas. Read heads are supposed to be mean and grumpy and get annoyed very easily, but not him. And he had very red hair. He was incredibly smart, too. Mom always got compliments about Thomas from his teachers. He was two years younger than me, but so much mature. I could learn so much from him and his way of being. Through my eyes he was perfect. Boy, I admired him so much.
Thomas died; he had leukemia. He died when my family was over in Maine, I was thirteen and he was eleven. It was a very hard time for us, especially for me. As I said, he was perfect, a perfect son, a perfect brother, and a perfect person. The only thing with what I can remember him clearly is his mitt. That mitt was part of him; his heart I would say. Because the two things that my dear brother treasured the most were represented in his baseball mitt. Baseball and poetry. That’s why I carry it in my suitcase, always with me.
The night he died I slept in the garage and broke all the godamn windows with my fist. I broke my hand, too. My parents nearly killed me, but I didn’t care. I missed Thomas, my perfect, red haired brother.
Every now and then I get tears in my eyes when I think of him. I miss his poetry and baseball addiction. His intelligence and nice personality.
