day I opened the old chest,
took out Grandma’s dress,
Only then I
saw the mistake done,
it was Grandma’s apron.
Mom’s keepsake tucked away,
reminder she would say,
Of the life
of her loving mother’s toil,
family farm on
now the memories flow free,
time-worn apron upon my knee,
flour sack cloth of floral green,
strings and pockets pressed and clean.
berry stains, gravy and millet,
splashes from simmering skillets,
protected in so many ways,
keeping her dress fresh and gay.
wiped her perspiring brow often,
potholder for pans from hot ovens,
splatters when poured and strained,
the pastels with spotted stains.
As a basket
for eggs from corn-fed hens,
A tote for
potatoes from the cellar bins,
A lap for
walnuts cracked from the shell,
And a catch
where snapped green beans fell.
tender dab it dried a child’s tears,
used for cleaning little dirty ears,
flies from fresh baked pies,
the table clean and nice.
nestled upon her apron lap,
hurt feelings and silly mishaps,
It was a
hiding place for shy little ones,
comfort that she homespun.
fingers caress this garment of old,
ebb those memories of gold,
wonderful royal apron and of,
life-long labor of love.