Mom's Apron

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.