I remember it well this apron
The one my mother wore
Her apron was her mark of trade
It covered her while doing "chores"
Use of this apron covered her from shoulder to knees
and it was as useful as can be
with pockets holding small momentos
things we misplaced, you see.
I see her coming from the garden
Apron filled with vegetables she gathers
Into the sink they go, brushing off
the dirt, it didn't matter
She uses the apron pockets for collecting
the clothespins she will use
To hang the just washed clothes
On washlines provided there
She walks through the living room
Someone is knocking at the door
Lifting one edge of the apron to make sure
dust is no more, she answers that door
Her apron stays on her all day,
protecting her limited wardrobe,
gathering pieces of this and that in the pockets
this apron all day long
Many times she brushed away a tear from my eye
Many time her pockets held, a hanky, a toy,
Sometimes completely empty
Sometimes filled with joy
At night that apron hung on a hook
Awaiting another day for my mother, her apron, a memory never to fade
As I am sure that apron may.
I loved my mother dearly having fears of her departing me. Sometimes, I would walk by that apron hanging on a hook. It did fade in color or print over time. I would lift it to my nose and
and it assured me that Mom would be putting on that apron in the morning and she did until the day she died.