Gloves

It's a cold morning. In my mind, I already know that it's cold because the car was chilly, but as I step out of the car, my face registers it as the cold hits me like a wall. A wall of frozen icy bricks. My breath hangs suspended, wispy white, for a split second before dissipating. The sound of my car door shutting reverberates in the stillness of the empty concrete garage. I shiver, glad for my black fleece gloves and acutely aware of just how cold flats can be in the winter. My fingers and toes hurt, so I know it's time to lock my car and get moving. Click. I double check that I've locked, rather than unlocked the car. Satisfied, I sling my backpack over my shoulder and begin the trudge to the metro.


My fingers hurt from the cold. Swinging my arms, I open and close my fingers rapidly, trying to get the blood circulating into the tips. I can feel my ring slipping off inside my glove. The dry, frozen grass beneath my feet crinkles. It's a weird feeling, this. The softness of the yellow and brown stalks gives way to the hard, uneven bumpiness of the frozen ground beneath. I cross over to the asphalt path through a gap in the row of brown bushes that stretch their twigs every which way. Plodding along, I notice there are construction workers already busy at work as the first few glimmers of the harshly pale winter sunlight warm our surroundings. Bundled from head to toe, from hard hat and well-worn navy blue beanie to rugged Timberland boots, one of them looks cold. I only have a few minutes to go before I get on a warm train, and I'm glad to get out of the cold. He has the rest of the day ahead of him. I'm glad he's well-prepared for the cold. And then I notice that because he's applying what looks like grout to the side of the building, he's working with no gloves on. Bare hands freezing in the cold, he slathers the grout into the gap between the stone blocks. And I wish that there were something that I could do to help, but there is nothing. So I continue on my way, now with all complaints of cold fingers silenced. And I wonder to myself, what other figurative gloves should I be thankful for?