"May I see them?" I ask.

"Yes, of course," says the clerk. "Let me get the key."

The elderly woman behind me sighs deeply, arms heaped with faded flowered curtains, tassels, fringe. The smell of the unwashed fabric fills my nostrils. In fact, the stench permeates the entire store. It is the scent of poverty. The odor of good finds. Apparently she is wondering, like me, what at the Salvation Army could possibly be so fine that it must be kept under lock and key. I step aside, invite her to lay her mountain of malodorous goods—some hot water and a little Tide will fix that right up, I think—on the countertop, which she does, grimacing, then meanders off.

The red gauntlets are at least two sizes two small.

The saleslady seems to share my disappointment, her dark eyes tinged with regret. Today a sapphire adorns one of her delicate brown nostrils. Last week it was cubic zirconium.

"Who would throw these out?" I wonder aloud to no one in particular. They are lovely, even with their unruly fringe. I turn over the price tag. Brace myself. $5.99. Let my breath out in a slow whoosh of disbelief. Feel an inexplicable sense of excitement rising. They may not fit me, but I've just won the thrift-store lottery.

"Well," I tell the sales clerk, "I think they'll fit my little girl.” Then after she asks me if there'll be anything else, I say no thanks and begin to tell her more than anyone at the Salvation Army wants to know, “My daughter will look so pretty wearing these when she rides her horse." The clerk stares at me soberly as I blather, “It’s a white horse. You see. An Andalusian.” I hold the fringy gauntlets up, one in each hand. “These will suit them both.”

The elderly woman reappears behind me, now clutching a gold filigree curtain rod. She rolls her eyes pointedly. What does she care?

The clerk wraps the red fiery things up for me in a recycled pink paper bag from a candy store.

Sparks nearly fly.

At home, I lay the gauntlets out on J.'s bed, arrange, rearrange, and smooth the fringe, just like my mom used to do when she got me or my sister something special. Most of the gifts she gave to me when I was a girl were laid out on my bed when I got home from school—a skirt or dress she'd sewn, a book, that pair of red dress shoes I’d had my eye on at the mall, vintage earrings. I look out of my little girl’s bedroom window towards the mesa, now imbued with the amber and scarlet light of late afternoon, and have to remind myself that the kids will not be home for three more days. An eternity. It's the damned joint-custody thing. One week with me and Dennis. One week with their dad. Neither J. or C. likes it much. Who would?

For a moment, I feel sorry for myself—a statistic. I’m what happens when you muster up the effrontery to divorce a mildly prominent, small-town man who hits you in lieu of conversation. I finger the fringe of J.'s new gauntlets against the horse-embroidered coverlet on the antique iron bedstead. Try to remind myself that I am not a half-time mom. Some kind of strange hybrid parent. I am my children's mother every single day, even when they're not here with me. I made the choice I made to stay alive (one head injury is enough) and to be here today for my kids. And for me. Occasionally, it’s a mantra.

Last week, my mother's Italian friend sends an exquisite red rosary from Montichiari for my daughter. (The educational brochure in the package says that the Rosa Mystica first appeared there in 1947.) The lovely Italian woman, who lost her own mother when she was very young, writes that she is offering this small rosary as loving comfort from Christ's mother Mary to my darling daughter J. It’s for when she’s not here at the ranch and she’s missing me. (My mother has been talking again.) She tells me to remind J. that Christ will loan his mother to all of the sad and lonely children.

Earlier this year, I dream of a blue lady in a blue house where my husband Dennis and I vacationed once by the sparkling blue Gulf of Mexico. Auburn curls frame her radiant face. Her almond-shaped eyes are filled with compassion. I don’t know how in the world I know this, but I know exactly who she is—Sophia, the lady who calls from the heights of the top of the city. They didn’t talk about her at the Crystal Avenue Baptist Sunday School, although they did manage to tell us that we girls are somehow responsible for the fall of mankind. She opens her arms, dripping with bell-shaped sleeves suddenly all of the colors of the sunset. “I’m your mother,” she says.

I wake up.

Beyond J.’s bedroom window, the train whistle blows. My thoughts stray to my husband who will be home from work soon. I am always glad to see him coming through the door in his Stetson hat and cowboy boots. It's not just big old draft horses who are strong and powerful and loving and and kind all at once. I'm happier than I've ever been about that.

The Amtrak blows along the farthest edge of our little ranch in a blur of blue and silver, right on schedule, the glass observation car filled with people going places as I sit here. Waiting. Sometimes I run out to the edge of our hill and wave to them. I imagine my little girl J. galloping on her pearl-white horse alongside the tracks in the red sand, the red fringe of her gauntlets setting the reins ablaze.

I hope she’ll like them.