Gloves of white lace, hand-stitched, vintage. I kept staring at them in the glass case (craning my neck around all the gaudy jewelry and baubles), knowing that I was sure-as-hell going to have to buy those gloves, no matter how much they cost ! The wedding was just weeks away, and Sandra said nothing about wanting or needing a five-dollar pair of antique gloves to complete her wedding day ensemble. She had the dress — paid $100 cash for it at the Polish wedding shop on Michigan Avenue. Sandra came out of the fitting room, pressing down the bodice, her hips feeling its fullness, the fabric, in all its curlicue, posh-paisley lace and I gasped. Her college friend, Lisa, caught her breath, both hands covering her mouth. She and I simultaneously uttered, “Oh!” It was a moment of shared awe. Sandra’s panicked voice questioned, “What ?!” And all I could manage was “You’re lovely,” then caught myself. Days later, the wide double doors of Saints Peter and Paul church open, and Sandra was there, waiting. Smiling, she extended her hand, and mine reached out to meet it. I felt the softness and the delicate stitching of her gloved hand.
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This post was previously published on Medium.
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Photo credit: Author