tales for dreamers: the right hand for a lost glove

A lost glove is looking for just the right hand. Say what? Yours might be the perfect fit. But you won't know until you try it on.

tales for dreamers: the right hand for a lost glove
tales for dreamers: the right hand for a lost glove

A fancy red thing, it is perched atop a fence at the intersection of Longmoor Dr and Stephanie St.

Its fingers curl, the way you’d curl yours if you wanted to ask a question or wave teasingly. Or maybe it was waggling its fingers at someone who took offence and froze it in place.

“I need a hand,” it beseeches me as I shuffle past.

I halt. “Sure. With what?”

“No no, not metaphorically,” it says. “I need a real human hand that will fit me. A right hand, mind you.”

It then points its fingers down as if it were bending to take a closer look at my hand, and cheeps, “Yours! Your right hand will do the trick, I bet! Go ahead. Try me.”

I don’t like the way it is ogling at my hand. I want to hide my hand behind my back, but all I manage to do is hold on even tighter to my walking stick.

“As you can see, I already have a glove, thank you.”

It draws back its fingers, offended. “Surely you could do with a spare,” it says. “It’s only March. You know how Canadian winters are. The cold is here to stay for another couple of months at least.”

The idea of a spare is extremely enticing. “But what will I do with a half-pair spare?” I ask. “Where’s your other half?”

“Ohhh!” The glove squeals, waggling its fingers. “There is so much I can do by myself. I can tickle, I can scratch. I can paint, I can draw. I can clean, I can cut. I can bake, I can cook. I can stitch, I can spank. And don’t tell anyone, but I can even steal. Wear me and see for yourself!”

In all these years of living, I haven’t met a soul, let alone a glove, who can do all of those things without help. Perhaps, technology has found a way to do the things magic simply cannot.

“And are you machine-washable?” I ask.

“You can take me into the shower with you, no problem at all,” it says, waggling its fingers again.

I have spent enough time in this world to spot when someone evades a direct answer to my question.

“Why can’t I simply toss you into the washing machine?” I ask.

The glove sighs. “Sure you can. Find a machine large enough for you to climb in, and voila.”

I narrow my eyes and stare at the red object of magic. “Because once I wear you, you will not come off?”

“Together till death do us apart,” the glove says as the fingers bend together in a bow.

I hobble away as fast as I can without bidding farewell. Even I know to stay away from magic that insists on sticking like glitter glue. Something, I suspect, the next person to walk down Longmoor Dr will not know.