Here I am with Julian of Broadway, the Keeper of the CITY OF LOST MITTENS. All winter she stoops to pick up and press to her heart stray gloves and mittens from the streets of New York City.
Today she strings two sections of yarn to trees in the plaza near 65th and Broadway. Each mitten is pinned onto the line. She has cut red letters out of construction paper, large and simple.
Those letters are pinned onto the line right on top of the mittens, spelling out CITY OF LOST MITTENS.
This is the second Saturday she has set up her shelter, calling out for the mamas and the papas who may yet have the twins of these little things, reminding us that NOTHING GOOD IS EVER LOST.
The telephone rings. It is my sister Cynthia interrupting this writing to tell me that when I called her this morning, one minute before her alarm went off, she could not answer because she was finishing a dream in which she is looking for a lost glove. It is cobalt blue, cashmere, and brand new.
She is distraught. It was the best pair she had ever had.
Do you see my face? My eyes? I am showing you this woman, our modern-day mystic, who is telling you that NOTHING IS LOST. NOTHING IS LOST. NOTHING.
Look at her. I am her witness.
Today she strings two sections of yarn to trees in the plaza near 65th and Broadway. Each mitten is pinned onto the line. She has cut red letters out of construction paper, large and simple.
Those letters are pinned onto the line right on top of the mittens, spelling out CITY OF LOST MITTENS.
This is the second Saturday she has set up her shelter, calling out for the mamas and the papas who may yet have the twins of these little things, reminding us that NOTHING GOOD IS EVER LOST.
The telephone rings. It is my sister Cynthia interrupting this writing to tell me that when I called her this morning, one minute before her alarm went off, she could not answer because she was finishing a dream in which she is looking for a lost glove. It is cobalt blue, cashmere, and brand new.
She is distraught. It was the best pair she had ever had.
Do you see my face? My eyes? I am showing you this woman, our modern-day mystic, who is telling you that NOTHING IS LOST. NOTHING IS LOST. NOTHING.
Look at her. I am her witness.
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