A decree of 40 days mourning

In my devastated state I cannot even wait to make it home to write this: my father, my dear, dear father, has sold my beloved softball glove. My own beautiful golden brown glove - cast away like some cheap tat. It did not deserve its fate, sold on some paltry 50-cent table of a yard sale, no doubt. I'm the one who wore it in by putting it under my pillow at night so it would cradle caught balls just so. I chewed on the leather straps just as some kid does today, oblivious to the former glory we shared. Would that little bugger who owns it now even care? I'm truly grieving - does anyone care? Goodbye esteemed glove - I very much loved you.