My Grandmother’s Gloves

Even her gloves revealed her: soft leather,

not a common black or ordinary brown

but a deep flamboyant orange,

the rust of late autumn, warm and supple.

They are the last things I have kept,

the final detritus after all the givings-away,

the ritual removals:

buttons in plastic pill containers,

assorted remnants of cloth,

zippers, needles, thread;

her clothes all gone,

her furniture distributed.

Left: these exuberant gloves

I cannot bear to part with.

For when I slip my hands into them,

I am held, perfectly.

cheryl.clock@sunmedia.ca