chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things

Elsie’s gloves…

Elsie's glovesElsie was born in 1886 into a family of top hats and tails, gowns and gloves, fans and frills. She wore gorgeous clothes, married twice, traveled widely and lived long enough to be the only grandparent I remember.

From a drawer, I lift out her gloves, softest kid, ivory and fawn and black and near-black chocolate, beaded or embroidered or ruched or seamed or plain.

I pull on a long glove, an opera glove known as a mousquetaire. It clings, black and weightless, above my elbow, the fingers slender and snug. At the wrist, a narrow three-button opening offers a seductive glimpse of pale skin, pulse.

I turn my hand this way and that, then shake myself back to jeans and sweats, pull off the glove, which is too small anyway, and fold it away, a bit of Elsie’s softness still palpable in the fading scrapbook of my memory.

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