Because my mother was born in the beginning of the last century she wore gloves to parties and other functions including film screenings. Her choice most often was the black glove. She had leather ones, silk ones and lace ones. Because she stored them in a camphor-wood chest they had a scent to this day reminds me of my mother just like Chanel No 5 does.

When I was in the Argentine Navy as a conscript I was often sent to deliver documents to a big navy building that was called El Elefante Blanco. One day I decided to play a little trick. I told the chauffeur of my boss, the Senior US Naval Advisor, Captain Onofrio Salvia USN to allow me to ride in the back of the black Chevrolet Impala that was the captains’s car. He agreed. At the time I had a beautiful black leather brief case and a lovely pair of very expensive and close fitting black leather gloves. I finished my modified uniform with a pair of handsome sunglasses.

When we arrived at the Elefante Blanco, the chauffeur got out and opened the door for me. As I walked up the stairs the guard all saluted me as did a few non-commissioned officers. I felt like a million bucks!

Black Glove

A poem

By D.A. Powell

April 15, 2016

There she was we said

flat on her back on the sidewalk

outside Burdick’s like a lost crow

in the snow, splayed

                                    open as a question

mark, the time,

                                    mark the time

you said, like it was dead

and picked it up

Who would have missed this bird

on their fist or their dainty wrist

it seemed she could have been anyone’s

but no one claimed her on the street

where fingers extended begged for change

to invest them with humanity again

a simple hand inside a hand

but you took the entire night on

with a warm stranger. And it fit you.

                        —In Memoriam, C. D. Wright