Knitted Gloves

When you knitted me
and thought of the son you loved
with fingers and strings and tears,
to reach, then to knit me again into gloves -
I was scared I would fall apart and fray
with strands like memories that haunt and stray.
So I thought I was his present - for you
bought my strings with ribbons too,
packing me, so carefully, in a box of colours.
I used to imagine the wrinkled contours
of his smile when he sees me and wears me...
but I never came out of the box.