Cold Morning

Joey's noona stood next to me at the tram stop in Gertrude Street.

"No gloves," she said, incredulously. "No gloves?" She raised her hands in the air as if they were a question mark.

She poked me in the arm, as if to make more of a point. Being so short, I guess, she had to make her point any way she could.

"No," I said. "I don't wear gloves.”

She rapped her arms around herself as if to hug. "Brrrrrr. You crrizy."

"I don't own gloves," I said, which isn't strictly true. I have several pairs of vintage, leather gloves from my father and grandfather, handed down to me, none of which I wear.

"I knit you some," she said. “If my Giuseppe wore gloves, 'ed be aloyve todeye.”

"No, no, no..." I started to say.

"For you," she said. "No problem. You noice boy, you keep warm." She rubbed her hands on her arms.

"But I don't wear gloves," I said.

"You wear my gloves," she said. She smiled, encouragingly. "For me," she said. "You wear them for me."