| Blue Calico Apron She slips it over her white hair, pinned in a bun. Ties it at the waist of the pink dress she made by hand, so many years ago. In one pocket, she places a neatly folded hanky. The one with little purple flowers. Her day begins. She is hanging the laundry out to dry on this warm, summer morning. I see the blue calico prints waving in the air, as if it is saying, "good morning" to me. I run to her in my bare feet. She pulls me close for a hug, reaches into the left pocket and pulls out a stick of juicy fruit gum, she knows it is my favorite. I run to play with one of my cousins as she tells me to be careful. She was too late. I had already fallen, scraping my knee. She rushes to my cry and carries me in the house. As she reaches for the peroxide, I begin to cry harder. She gently wiped my tears with the corner that has the blueberry stain from last summer. Today I am cleaning the attic. I find a trunk, covered with dust. Inside the trunk, I cry at the site of the blue calico apron she wore that day and so many days like it. I slip it over my hair, I have pinned in a bun, tie it at my waist. I turn to look in the mirror and for the first time in years, I see her again. |
 |
| My Grandmother Marie Willis 1900-1986 |