We live in a glove, the glove that is the membrane, rarely permeable, between life, living, death, amniotic floating and that earlier time, this moment that we think is the actual moment and the realization that the moment we thought was “in the moment” is gone.
I ponder a pair of long white kid leather gloves with pearl closures at the wrist that my mother-in-law Lois once wore. I found them wrapped in white tissue paper in her cedar-lined closet after she died. They are exquisite and completely anachronistic. I keep them in a glass-topped case along with a mother-of-pearl fan that belonged to Lois’s second late husband’s first late wife. Every now and then I open the case and touch the gloves, although I cannot say why.
Then there are the red knit mittens that I bought to take on a trip to New York City years ago: adorable, itchy and useless against wet cold; the elegant black leather gloves a size too small; or the gardening gloves which I hate and mostly decline to wear.
I prefer to get compost under my fingernails and to be bitten by bugs rather than be separated from sensation by a glove.
Gloves leave room for plausible deniability.