Retiring the Gloves

The cold weather reminded me that it’s time to retire the once-white work gloves. The middle finger tip blew out last spring. While I enjoyed the air conditioning this summer, I don’t enjoy it on mornings when temperatures drop into the 30s. But I feel a sadness with letting them go. Those gloves carry the dirt from the garden, the manure from the barns, the sweat from me. Red and green livestock grease pencil marks dot their backsides. When I wear them and see the slits made with the hoof trimmers, I’m reminded of that chore, and the gratitude I felt that I was wearing gloves. Those gloves are bathed in the blood of horses, sheep, dogs, and my own. Their fingers curl just like mine. The new gloves feel stiff, not a part of me. But I wear them on Sunday when I’m moving hay so they can start carrying the story of me and the farm.