I lost a mitten on February 10. And it made me very sad. I hadn’t lost a mitten since 2017, when I actually lost a pair of them.

This Christmas my mother bought me a pair of very pretty mittens. The colors are cheery and subdued, all at the same time. The red flower on the top of each mitten, along with the red buds along the cuffs have just the right touch of whimsy for me. She also bought the knit beanie hat that matched the mittens. When I opened her gift, I wasn’t sure about the beanie. I’m kind of fussy about hats. But later when I tried it on, I found it fit well and looked nice on my head. My mother has a knack for buying me things I wouldn’t buy for myself, yet I end up loving them. She seems to know if something will suit me. Maybe that’s because she sees me differently than I see myself.

After I unwrapped the mittens, oohed and aahed over them, and slipped them on my hands, my mother said, “I bought those at Ciao Bella’s. They were expensive.”

And my mother has a knack for that too — pointing out that something was expensive or sharing exactly how much she paid for it. I think this has to do with how poor she was as a child. I had no doubt they were expensive. They were fancy, they were lined, and they felt like small warm hugs on my hands. I loved them. I thought, “I’ll have to take extra care not to lose them.” And that made me afraid to wear them.

Until my daughter-in-law took me to dinner and a play to celebrate my book of short stories being accepted by a publisher. It was a special night, and I wanted to wear my pretty hat and mittens. Dinner was wonderful, and the play, What the Constitution Means to Me, was funny and thought-provoking, and I didn’t lose my hat or mittens.

Emboldened, I started to wear my Christmas mittens to other places, including a coffee shop on February 10. I met a friend for lunch, and we visited for two hours. When I got up to leave and put on my mittens, I discovered I had only one mitten in my purse. I was certain that I’d had both of them when I’d gotten out of my car. My heart sank. In the morning when I’d put on the mittens, I remembered thinking, “I love these, and I sure hope I don’t ever lose them.” I felt like I’d cursed my mittens.

My friend and I looked everywhere for the mitten: all over the coffee shop, in the parking lot, in my car. Then we looked in all of those places again and again. (It’s nice to have a friend who will stay and help you look for a lost mitten.) We even went next door to the bookstore just in case someone found the mitten and turned it in there. No one had seen my mitten, and no one had turned it in at either shop. In the bitter cold, I drove home with only one hand snuggled in warmth. Mother Goose’s nursery rhyme about naughty kittens losing their mittens played in my head.

I’d decided to try and replace the mittens. After I arrived home, I called the store where my mother had bought them and left a message. But I was too impatient to wait for someone to call me back. While I was waiting, someone, somewhere, might buy the last pair of mittens like mine.

I found a tag inside my remaining mitten. They were made by a company called Lost Horizons. Now that’s irony. I looked up the company online. They still had my mittens for sale. The name of the pattern was Chloe. I decided not to wait to hear back from the store where I’d left a message. (They have never returned my call.) I ordered a pair of Chloe mittens. My mother was right — they are expensive. And I had to pay shipping. But it was worth it to me because the mittens had been a gift from her. The older my mother gets, the more sentimental I get about her.

In the meantime, I took a photo of my remaining mitten and made a poster, writing on it: “Have you seen this mitten? They were a Christmas gift from my mother. If found please return to the coffee shop or the bookstore.” I asked the managers of each establishment if they could put up my poster. I needed to do everything I could to find my lost mitten. After all, when I lost the pair of mittens in 2017, I searched for them like a treasure hunter on the trail of a buried treasure. I never did find those mittens, and they weren’t replaceable.

Four or five days later my new mittens arrived. They were exactly the same! They looked just like the mitten I hadn’t lost. I put the right one on first because that was the one I’d lost. Same great hugging-the-hand feeling. Then I slipped on the left mitten. Not good. It felt like an overly-firm handshake. The lining of the mitten had been twisted during assembly and sewn in the wrong place.

On one hand, I still had the original left mitten that fit well, so that would leave me with a good pair of mittens that fit. On the other hand, I’d paid for two mittens that were supposed to fit properly. I wanted what I’d paid for, so I emailed the company, and explained the problem. It was Saturday and their offices were closed until Monday.

But in the tale of my lost mitten — a story with its ups and downs — another upswing came my way. I heard back from Lost Horizons. Their representative emailed me that while their offices were closed on the weekend, they wanted me to know that they’d received my email, they were sorry I’d had a problem with the mittens, and they’d be contacting me on Monday to help me with either a new pair of mittens or a refund.

On Monday I opted for new mittens. I received another email with a return label and an assurance that they’d reserve a pair of the Chloe mittens for me. (I liked how they made sure they didn’t sell the last pair of Chloe mittens while waiting for my returned mittens. A company that thinks like me!)

So, the pair of mittens with a defective left are on their way to the East Coast. And I’m waiting in the Midwest. It was bad luck to lose one of my mittens, especially during a subzero cold snap. It was good luck to find I could buy another pair. It was bad luck to get a defective mitten. It was good luck to have done business with a company that values customer service.

I’m hoping the good luck holds and my mittens arrive soon. I hope they fit well. I’m not superstitious, but maybe I’ll only wear them to the theater and not to coffee shops.