I still wear those mittens, the tattered ones I took from your Mom two Christmas's ago and never gave back. The purple dye bleeds onto my fingers and my thumb has begun to peek through, bearing my skin to the cold. I don't think about her when I put them on, anymore. Just annoyance at the loose threads and the inability to keep the warmth spread out on my hands. I'm sure she didn't mean for me to keep them. I loved her more than you did. I stayed longer than I should have. I stayed long enough to watch your Father sit in his car, passed out over the steering wheel. I stayed long enough to watch your Mother try to coax him back into the house, into a warm bed. I stayed long enough to watch you curl up inside of yourself. I stayed long enough to feel the satisfaction in that. I stayed much too long. The mittens your Mom sent me last Christmas, the grey fuzzy ones, are buried or lost. I much prefer these tattered ones. I much prefer the broken ones. The ones that make me forget about her.

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