Live Virtual Group Session: 6pm EST March 15th 2021

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

Our text for this session was “Yellow Glove” by Naomi Shihab Nye, posted below.

Our prompt was: “Write about where the yellow glove has been.”

More details on this session will be posted, so check back!

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Wednesday March 17th at 12pm EST, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions page.

Yellow Glove by Naomi Shihab Nye

What can a yellow glove mean in a world of motorcars and governments?

I was small, like everyone. Life was a string of precautions: Don’t kiss the squirrel before you bury him, don’t suck candy, pop balloons, drop watermelons, watch TV. When the new gloves appeared one Christmas, tucked in soft tissue, I heard it trailing me: Don’t lose the yellow gloves.

I was small, there was too much to remember. One day, waving at a stream—the ice had cracked, winter chipping down, soon we would sail boats and roll into ditches—I let a glove go. Into the stream, sucked under the street. Since when did streets have mouths? I walked home on a desperate road. Gloves cost money. We didn’t have much. I would tell no one. I would wear the yellow glove that was left and keep the other hand in a pocket. I knew my mother’s eyes had tears they had not cried yet, I didn’t want to be the one to make them flow. It was the prayer I spoke secretly, folding socks, lining up donkeys in windowsills. To be good, a promise made to the roaches who scouted my closet at night. If you don’t get in my bed, I will be good. And they listened. I had a lot to fulfill.

The months rolled down like towels out of a machine. I sang and drew and fattened the cat. Don’t scream, don’t lie, don’t cheat, don’t fight—you could hear it anywhere. A pebble could show you how to be smooth, tell the truth. A field could show how to sleep without walls. A stream could remember how to drift and change—next June I was stirring the stream like a soup, telling my brother dinner would be ready if he’d only hurry up with the bread, when I saw it. The yellow glove draped on a twig. A muddy survivor. A quiet flag.

Where had it been in the three gone months? I could wash it, fold it in my winter drawer with its sister, no one in that world would ever know. There were miracles on Harvey Street. Children walked home in yellow light. Trees were reborn and gloves traveled far, but returned. A thousand miles later, what can a yellow glove mean in a world of bankbooks and stereos?

Part of the difference between floating and going down.

8 thoughts on “Live Virtual Group Session: 6pm EST March 15th 2021

  1. Patricia D.

    The sister glove, the one tossed or lost in the stream explored the water’s depths. There, where dead leaves landed, toads yet to be born, sticks tossed by little boys and rain drops were lurking. The glove stayed for a few months cataloguing it booty so it could tell the young girl what bountiful treasures it discovered. It was dark and muddy until a magic lantern glowed enabling the glove to carry our its mission.

    Liked by 1 person

    • al3793

      I liked the mission of exploration and the discoveries, bountiful bounty. The deliberateness of the glove cataloguing its booty intending to tell the story to the young girl, once found, articulated a sense of purpose and caring – intimate in a way.


  2. Where the yellow glove has been~~~

    The yellow glove yearned for freedom, to explore the world beyond the young girl’s hand.
    It did not know how much it was valued, how much it was treasured by the young girl that had a heart of gold.
    Opportunity struck, as it dropped into the cold, muddy swirling water.
    Adventure awaits as it bobbed up and down, running into walls of metal pipes that carried it far away.
    Finally, the yellow glove floated out of town into a small country stream. There it met a group of newly hatched tadpoles who asked the yellow glove to join their group. The yellow glove declined, it had places to go and things to see. A bit farther down the stream, it spotted rainbow-colored crocuses and sun-colored daffodils that dotted the bank of the stream. Spring had arrived and it was time for the yellow glove to return home to its mate and the young girl who sorely missed him. Robin red-breast flitted above and asked the glove if it was lost. Yellow glove said, yes, it was far from home and needed help to find its way back. So the robin scooped yellow glove up in his beak and flew back to the street with the little houses lined up in a row. Robin dropped the yellow glove on a tree branch just outside the kitchen window where it could be spotted. The yellow glove looked a bit worn and dirty from its mighty adventure but it was very happy to be back home. Oh, the stories it had to tell its mate and to see once again the face of the young girl who had a heart of gold.


  3. Tony Errichetti

    When we were children my little sister and I were standing on a small bridge over a rushing creek looking down at the water, wondering if the water was moving or if we were moving.

    She had a purse and when she leaned over the bridge railing a Christmas ornament that she had pilfered from our Christmas tree fell out of the purse into the water below and went away.

    I can’t stop looking for that ornament on the banks of creeks wherever I go.

    Liked by 1 person

    • al3793

      I am intrigued by how the ornament “went away” and that the speaker still looks for it after all these years. I wonder what it looked like. Was it glass, pretty, colorful, delicate, could it survive to be found another day?


  4. al3793

    Where has the yellow glove been?

    The yellow glove started out on the pale, beige back of the sheep,
    sheared and sent to its spinner and then
    to a weaver’s loom to be fashioned into its functional form
    designed to give cover and warmth…
    Then on to the shelf at the general store and
    then into a giftbox wrapped just for me
    who would become the weaver of the child’s yarn.

    Liked by 1 person

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