What would you say if I told you my most valued possession is a baseball glove? It came to my hands the day that Brad died. I only remember sleeping in the garage the night he died. After breaking all the windows with my right fist. I could feel Bradley with me that night and in the morning; I took possession of his baseball glove then.
Bradley was a left-handed kid with the most warm smile you'll ever see. He had red bright hair that appeared to stand out as much as the sun. He was a brilliant kid and the nicest one. His worn out, brown fielder's glove is one of the things that capture his original personality. He had taken the time to write all over it. Poems and writings between the fingers, inside the pockets, behind, in the front, under the thumb... All in green ink. I believe this is why he did everything so good, he made every situation his own, it was unique.
Every time I found myself examining the glove, I could almost picture the skinny boy with his light-up hair out in the field reading his favorite lines in the short gaps of time between batters. I always enjoyed the most the memory of him smiling to the lines he had written; his smile is something I really miss.
Even when the memories of him start to blur and his smile becomes a little hazy in my head, I know the glove will bring him back to me. His pure and innocent essence is embodied in the old glove, afterall. His thoughts, his favorite poems, his personality.
