The Apron

I asked Mr. Google
if he knew her
if he remembered her
he shrugged
I’m sorry he said
maybe if she had
done something important
or she was the mother of
someone important
then I think there would
be a line around here somewhere

turning away I wanted to say
I remember her
the smell of soap and cooking
imbedded deep in her apron
as I grabbed on
to steady my feet

Apron Strings

How thin

spindly, frayed they

have become whipped

by time bleached

by the sun found

dangling in the far

off reclusive corners of

my memory bank where

these fingers now older

than yours reach

out to grab to

deftly check our bond

to tighten the knot to

tether us together

forever in time

"I want someone to tie to my lonely apron strings" Everything But The Girl

My Mother's Apron

It smelled of bleach and boiled cabbage. It was the most comforting thing I remember about my mother. I had to have been at the most three years old. Whenever the world became too much for me to handle I would bury my face in her apron and wrap my arms around her legs or as much as I could get around them with my short arms. Sixty five years later it is as present as this right here right now. The world can be just as terrifying today but the only thing I can wrap my arms around is a memory.