Barnaby dug a small hole in the green grass. He dropped in a single striped sock.
He patted the dirt flat with his hands and waited. Nothing grew.
The next morning, he scratched at the soil. His fingers brushed against soft wool instead of roots.
A bright yellow mitten popped out of the ground, waving its thumb.
Barnaby pulled gently on the yellow mitten. Two orange mittens followed, then four red ones.
They tumbled onto the grass like fluffy mushrooms. The air smelled faintly of dryer sheets.
Barnaby stomped on a pile of mittens and they squeaked loudly. He tried to climb them but slid down softly.
The garden was now a landscape of colorful, bouncing wool.
Barnaby sat cross-legged in the center of the mitten mountain.
He wrapped his cold toes inside the striped sock and smiled.
The sun felt warmer on the fuzzy heap.
Everything was soft, bright, and perfect.
