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Mother keeps a look out for her son to return home from war. She knits him a pair of gloves remembering how her son rubbed his cold hands together on the wintry morning he left. The war goes on. Mother waits. She unravels the gloves and knits them over and over again. When their small home is bombed, the gloves burn into ashes. Mother sits atop the rubble, plucks her white hair one by one and knits the gloves with her hair. Finally spring arrives and the war ends. Mother hears the sound of military boots nearing. She gathers all the strength left in her and walks down the stairs with anticipation.