Be Prepared...

Her hands were so cold. 

It was spring and the sun was shining, but it was deceptive. The air still held a chill, especially in the shade. 

It was hard to believe that in just a few months that same shady spot would be sticky and miserable. That people would be fanning themselves, turing their faces this way and that, just trying to catch any sort of breeze. 

But not today, today her hands were so cold.

A pair of gloves would be good. But she didn't have gloves with her and now it was too late.

Planning was always a problem. What all do you need to bring with you? Nobody seemed to agree. And it seemed to come in and out of fashion. Pack practically everything you own became just grab a little money became just you. Nothing else needed. 

But gloves. Gloves were needed.

She would have liked to have more than that. Maybe some hot cocoa. A snuggly blanket. Her dog. But for sure some fucking gloves.

Cold hands, warm heart. That's what her mother used to say. Her mother always had cold hands. Raynaud's Syndrome. Her fingers would turn blue when she was chilled then bright red as they warmed up. Though they never got really warm. Just a little warmer than ice cold. But she would touch you with those freezing fingers and as you jumped away from the chill she'd laugh, Cold hands, warm heart. 

That was a woman who needed a pair of gloves. 

She remembered her brother wondering if her hands were finally warm when they cremated her. His wife yelled at him for being inappropriate.

But she wondered too. Had there been a moment where her mother thought, finally. Finally my hands are warm. 

She should have been cremated. It was her husband's family that was against cremation. Not hers, obviously. But her mother-in-law had talked her husband into a burial in the family plot. Such a lovely space, under the shade of a giant oak. 

They could have at least given her a pair of gloves.