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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1767997-The-Last-Parade-In-Dealey-Plaza
Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Other · #1767997
WdC Survivor Challenge 2 - A white glove reminisces about its years of loyal service.
Gracing the elegant hands of one of the most gracious and beautiful woman who has yet lived does tend to give one an elevated sense of self. Admittedly, I am somewhat biased when it comes to my opinion of my Lady, but so many others share my view where she is concerned; the pink Chanel suit, the strand of pearls, the plaid coat, all in agreement that there are none better than she who wears us. But I enjoy a special place, always with her no matter what else she might be dressed in. As highly as I thought of her, my Lady has told me more than once that she thinks just as much of me, “perfect for every occasion”. 

So there was no surprise on my part when this morning she chose to draw me onto her slender hands. Even I, a simple pair of white silk gloves, understood how important this day was. There were many days like this in the life of my Lady and her Lord, as they were very important people, leaders of a Nation. They needed to be seen by their people, and it was my job to ensure that my Lady always looked as regal as she was at heart. Seeing her as such, with her smile and her wave, gave her subjects joy and helped them to feel that they were entrusting power to the right leaders. To leaders who cared enough to make themselves visible, vulnerable, accessible. I looked forward to the culmination of all this preparation, the moment when we would cruise down the street in the wheeled machine with beaming people surrounding us on all sides, shouting my Lady and Lord’s names. I could think of none more deserving of such a celebration than my owner, simple idolizing glove that I may be.

Finally the time for departure arrives, the hand I cover being gently taken as she is helped into the seat beside her Lord. My silk-threaded soul thrills with the rumble of the engines starting up and the distant roar of an eager crowd. Our motorcade begins its slow march into the city where the people are waiting, and my Lady reaches over, using me to take the hand of her Lord. His touch is one I am familiar with from over the years, and I know that my Lady feels like she is home when they are together, no matter where in the world they happen to be. In this moment, cradled between the embrace of their palms and their intertwined fingers, I bask in their love and enjoy the knowledge that I get to be a part of something so great. Not many gloves could claim such a high honor. As we roll into downtown to deafening applause I know beyond a doubt that I am lucky.

Ten years past, and I was still as flawlessly white and smooth as that first day because of the exquisite care she took of me. Oh, my Lady owned other pairs, but I knew I was her favored pair and happily bore the jealousy of the Winter Gloves, the Leather Gloves, the Riding Gloves, the Driving Gloves and the Opera Gloves. I think back to the day that she brought me into her service as if it were only weeks ago, a memory so fresh when I can hold onto only a few of these.

For days I had sat in the window of a shop, looking out on a busy street and willing someone to take notice, to simply turn their head and see my beauty lighting up the display. The cold plastic hands that wore me had held no life, no pleasure for me, and I was more than ready to become part of someone’s life. That was my duty, my purpose, the reason for my existence – I would not feel complete until I was in service. I needed to be worn instead of wearing a price tag myself. That tag was my cross to bear, and the very thing that had seemed to turn away the few people who stepped closer to inspect me through the glass. Despite my deepest desires, however, ever morning the lights came on and every night the lights went out, and still I gazed out at the world through a window, hoping.

Then, one night the lights went out as usual only to come back on merely a few hours later. Something felt different, urgency permeating the air as the shop’s keeper opened the door for a lovely woman with graceful carriage and in impeccable dress. It was still dark out, the street having been still and quiet for hours, so I knew that this woman must be special if the shop would open only for her. She came inside, the sharp click of her heels reverberating in the otherwise empty store. Outside two men wearing black suits waited for her, their backs to the door and their eyes on the sidewalk, as if they expected trouble to come along. But my eyes were only for her. She was dazzling when she smiled, and my heart jumped when I saw her perfectly-coifed head turn my way. Her eyes landed on me and then I knew, I was meant to be hers.

Her cream colored skirt and blazer, black silk undershirt, and short strand of pearls were a stunning ensemble that betrayed her status, but I saw immediately that her hands were bare, naked. She had come for me, to complete her. As if she too understood, she glided over and delicately pulled me from the display then onto her hands one at a time, cooing with delight. Our relationship was consummated, we were joined. Minutes later I was finally out in the world, settled into my new role of serving my Lady, as I would be for the next ten years.
No one could blame me for what I feel when my Lady raises her hand, and me, to wave. I can feel the Texas sunlight warming my threads just as it warms the asphalt over which we roll; it is a day worthy of them. From this elevated place I could observe a sea of faces, and in the near distance the sun’s rays lit up a grassy knoll that seemed to be deserted.

There comes a sudden crack of thunder, though it baffles me because the sky above was perfect, cloudless blue, no sign of storms. A storm of a different kind explodes to the right of my Lady, in the seat beside her, as her Lord is thrown violently back, a hush settling briefly in the wake of the sound. Then a hellish chorus of screams punches a hole in the stunned silence; realization of what has just happened spreads through the crowd like a wildfire, invoking shrieks of horror, cries of outrage. Our motorcade turns from a leisurely parade for the constituency to a panicked race for safety; but there is no cover, no safe harbor, that would make a difference now. In the swiftness of a moment’s time, the damage was done, the Prince of a Nation lay dying, struck down.

She begs him to live in a sobbing voice of desperation, pressing me futilely against the mortal wound of her Lord, her Love. As I am stained with his ebbing life, turning me from pristine white to stark scarlet, I know that this will be the last time that I serve my Lady. And I am proud.


© Copyright 2011 The Huntress ~ Autumn Calling (thearcherqueen at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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