Gloves

[And last, but not least, in my triple-threat response to Read Write Poem's prompt to think about clothing...]



Gloves

On an average winter day,
I head out in a coat
and my black leather gloves.

The gloves fit me perfectly
now, the thin leather stretched
to just my shape, worn but warm
enough and they feel more
grown-up than yarn or fleece.

Their softness holds echoes
of the dresser drawer that held
Mom's many leather gloves.

They were white and bone, black
and brown, camel and navy.

She had short
ones that barely
reached her wrist.
There were some that kept
her wrists warm, tucking into
the sleeve of her winter coat.
And there were long ones for very special occasions,
like dressing to the nines for a romantic night of dancing.

The ones lined in silk were her favorites.
And they all fit her
like a glove.