My Mother’s Gloves
By BarbaraAnne:

Vintage rhinestoned pink they were
Perfectly kept in a mahogany drawer —
A time capsule for accessories,
in case we required delicate attire.

Our prepared identity,
my mother’s and mine
must be kept safe.
But tragedy does not a lady make.

Sometimes I open our drawer
and smell her meticulous keeping.
Her perfume brings back her voice.
“It’s all I have,” she used to say,
until she died on Valentine’s Day.

Looking at her gloves, untouched,
I wonder if they were a gift from her true love,
who never gave her any place to wear them.

Filed under: Style, Angst