Dad’s Gloves

Dad’s Gloves

The day after my dad died

I found his gloves where he left them

In the garage on the hood of his truck

Just a place of convenience

For the tired shell of a man he once was

The gloves spent the night there holding each other

As if dad’s hands were still in them

Probably sleeping well in total exhaustion

From another day of dirt and toil

Abuse only an old farm seasoned man could deliver

I wonder if those gloves somehow knew

It was their last day of abuse

From hands defined by the honor of a hard day of work

Those gloves showed their age just like my father did

Yet the gloves and him were always ready for any task

The stubborn old man could deliver

A man that would never ask for help

Knowing that other hands couldn’t perform the task

With the same precision and thoroughness

He and his old leather friends could

A long time after he died I found a box in his closet

Filled with pair after pair of new gloves

Gifts from those who knew he was a hard-working man

But he would never cast aside the friendship of his old pair

Each stain and hole told the story of task never shirked

If gloves could cry out of loneliness I’m sure they did

I tried to put them on to comfort them

But I felt a strange resistance

So I left them there on the truck hood to hold each other

The day we laid him to rest the gloves found their way

To his casket to take the journey with him

Even though I know his new tasks and assignments

Will come with a new pair of leather friends

Ready to take on any job big or small

Ready to enjoy the smell of dirt and sweat

Ready to deliver the honor of hard work… God’s work