I was cleaning and doing some general de-cluttering today when I came across one of my Mom's old aprons. It isn't what anyone could call pretty, its a worn faded royal blue with several scorch marks on it. It still feels soft like her aprons always did. (To me it feels like love.)I sat there for a while just holding it and allowing many good memories to come back.
Mom always wore an apron. Usually it was several shades lighter than the color of dress she was wearing.
As a child, her apron was as much a part of her as her smile, or her gentle hands. If I hurt myself and had to cry her apron was always there to dry my tears.
In the evenings after supper, Mom and Daddy would often walk out to the garden to see how everything was growing, and often times it would be filled with various vegetables by the time we got back to the house.
Her apron served as a pot holder on the occasions when a pot was threatening to boil over on the stove.
It served as a towel to dry her hands when ever she had to leave in the middle of washing the dishes to answer the door or help us children with something.
It was used as a blanket when we sat on the porch swing in the evening and one of us would be chilly.
It was removed and snapped at stray dogs to chase them out of our yard and away from her frightened children.
It was used to fan her face on summer days when the kitchen was hot from canning.
Every once in a while she would let us hold the apron strings and pretend to be driving a horse.
Often when she spied something dusty, the corner of her apron would be used to wipe it off.
I gently folded the apron and put it into one of my drawers. I'll never use it, but every once in a while when I'm missing my Mom I can go hold that apron and once again be a carefree little girl skipping beside my mother.