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