“The old widow and the very old glove” A very sad story.
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There once lived in a very far about long road type of place, a widow who mistakenly fell in love with someone who never once thought about her. And yes, she also was the owner of a single very old glove.
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All her days were spent wondering and hoping and dreaming for a boy, yes she knew him as a boy, who quite possibly had zero interest in her.
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She pined and frowned. She cussed (she did have quite a foul mouth at times) and swore at the moon shaking her angry arms about like a lunatic (no pun intended)
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She wasted and wallowed and wandered about like a lonely ghost, never thinking that he might actually not NOT care, but rather that perhaps he felt rather like an old dirty, mishapen glove. Like her old, dirty, mishapen glove.
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You see, gloves are only ever good in pairs – they don’t do that well in society on their own, they need a mate to feel complete and in any case this particular glove had the additional problems of grime and stretch issues. And not only do they need to be in a pair, but they can also be quite sensitive at times.
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The widow’s glove had been quite beautiful in its day. It was a pale pink kid skin and ornamented with a small spray of flowers in coloured silks. There were two neat little buttons at the wrist and was attractively pinked in scallops at the hem. It was altogether delightful and had been it’s owners greatest satisfaction.
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But over the years of straining and stretching and pulling to put them on and off the glove had aged. It no longer had the bright stain of it’s heyday and had soaked up the delicate lady perspiration’s from dancing and suchlike. The moths had chewed at its seam, and a button had lost it’s covering. It was threadbare at the fingertips in places where the lady had nervously picked, and there was ink drops near the creases. Though it had been well cared for, time had taken it’s toll and it was altogether a shabby sight compared to it’s former glory.
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One day glove realised that it had lost it’s pair.. It was a slow realised pain and one that shocked with it’s finality.
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Never again would it feel that sense of completion at seeing it’s mate in and out of view.
Never again would it be stacked neatly side by side in the ladies perfumed drawer.
And never again would it seek comfort in the dark of her purse as they pressed against each other.
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Yes. Those days were gone.
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You would think a glove didn’t have feelings of this kind – but trust me they did. And not only did they have them, but they knew happiness of any kind was inconceivable with another covering. Even a glove of the same vintage with perfectly copied embroidery would not do. It must be ‘their’ glove – cut from the same cloth and a perfect mirror image of the other.

So unfortunately for this glove there was no future of happiness, as was the case for the widow who owned it. The glove never forgot it’s mate and despite others saying they might also be dirty and misshaped it was the only thing of true beauty in the world as it stood.

But perhaps, dear reader, all that happened was that they were simply used for the purpose for which they were meant….and that was that.
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The widow never threw out her dirty, mishapen glove. She could not even fit her tiniest pinkie in, her gnarled and swollen fingers had made it impossible years ago. So she tucked it in her bosom, attached to it’s odd loneliness and the knowledge no other would want it.
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And one day they found her body, passed in her sleep clutching the odd, dirty glove to her chest still dreaming of the boy that would never be hers who did not care about her in the absolute slightest way.
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THE END