on cold days, I pour into my nana’s hands

Rich, buttery, cocoa-coloured leather. 
Always-soft cashmere lining, in a gentle camel.
I thought they would be just the thing.
Use my fingers
AND keep them warm.

The first time I slid them on
I became someone else.
What surprise.
What happiness.

Her powder table –
Is that what you call it? –
had a drawer exclusively
for gloves.
Long, synthetic gloves
to the elbow
small, round, fabric buttons
at wrist.

Almost transparent
chocolate and mocha
driving gloves with
holes
back of hand
tops of fingers.
These ones were prestigious.
Can see my mom
bouncing around Rome in a Cinque Terre.
Bedtime stories.

– when I left Rome
I passed gloves
on my way to the gate.
Stopped to connect time and
touch leather –

When I wear my today gloves
my hands are Nana’s. 
I am not 48 but 88. 

– Indeed she died at that age – 

My knuckles are bone inflamed.
Skin, Ponds soft 
Shimmery
Short, red nails 
Perhaps an opal
No. Brown-yellow topaz. 

This was the hand that 
reached 
held tight 
when I ripped myself 
from the prairie. 

This was the hand 
I held 
as she poured 
in between my 
lungs in death. 

Now. 
On cold days. 
I put my hands into
cocoa leather. 
Delight in my 88 
years.