Mama's Apron
Mama's now in Heaven
But her apron is hanging there
In my vivid memory
On the nail behind her rocking chair.
From pretty flowered feed sacks
Mama did cut and sew
To fashion her bib aprons
With a long sash to form a bow.
Mama's handmade apron
Was magical to me
As she kept treasures in her pockets
For all us children, you see.
She wore her starched apron
As she went about her daily chores.
It was as handy as a skeleton key
That opened all the front doors.
If my cheek needed wiping
When I cried, coughed, or sneezed,
The apron was at hand
And easily accessible to seize.
I've seen her use her apron to shine
The fender of the '48 Ford truck.
It looked so pretty and shiny as though
It had just come from Sears Roebuck.
It was used to take bread from the oven
And then rushed to wipe my tear
Or to get a dust-speck from my eye.
It often made a lap for me to stories hear.
It wiped spills from the table tops
While she baked cakes and pies.
Mama's symbol of love and care showed
In her deep, clear-blue eyes.
Late each evening Mama untied her apron
And hung it on the tin-penny nail
Behind her easy-rocking chair.
Then she'd say her prayers to God in detail.
In my photographic memory
Mama's apron is hanging on the nail still
Behind her white-oak rocking chair
Ready to adorn in the early morning chill.
Author: Edith Bastin © Copyright: May 14, 2000. All Rights Reserved.
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