Johnny's Mitt

                          Johnny was my younger brother. He was a baseball player and when I say baseball player I don’t mean a mediocre one; that would be an understatement. He was good, really good.
                 But his excellence didn’t stop there. He shined in so much more. Just like his fiery red hair shined from miles away. In academics he would excel the teacher’s  expectations every time; they would always rave on about how smart of a boy he was. And he was too, he really was. Even though he was two years younger than me, his intelligence was superb to mine.
                But back to him being a baseball player. He wore this baseball mitt, and boy did he love it. Honestly, back then, I didn’t know what he found so special about that particular mitt. But it was very important to him, his most prized possession. On the mitt he had written poems.  Words flowed all over it. I remember watching him writing, he would write all through the mitt’s pocket and fingers. Just take out that green marker and continuously mark down his own poetry.
            During games he would look down at the glove, every time. He reads the poems and then plays.  He would read the poems I mean, Johnny is gone. And that insignificant mitt that I found no importance to when Johnny was alive is now mine. The mitt in whole is mine. With poetry and all, the only remains I have of Johnny is that mitt.