She holds the glove as if it were a child, a treasure, made of the finest porcelain or glass.
The white kidskin is beginning to yellow with age. Dried specks of blood on the fingertips.
They look like old hunting gloves, ancient dress gloves.
She kisses each fingertip, one by one, as if she were counting beads on a rosary.
Someone stole this glove once. That used to be a very popular thing. Grave robbing. But, we eventually got it back.
It’s a very special glove.
She takes my hand. Her fingers are cold.
She slides the old glove over my hand and I feel something.
Something like electricity.
My hair stands up.
My vision clouds.
I see two souls becoming one 880 years after they were separated.
I see a grand king and queen wearing matching gloves.
I see the glove in a decayed field, almost glowing with what can only be thought of as purity.
She takes the glove back, gently folds it and smiles at me.
She offers me a blessing.
I nod, trying to clear my head.
Let the soft glove remind you to be patient with every one, strong and weak. Be merciful. Be honourable. That is what the glove teaches us.
She gives me a regal smile, and a quick wink.
That’s how I raised my children…and they were mightier than kings.