Poetry at 72

Twin Aprons of Honor

A 70’s kitchen, soft-turquoise walls
black Formica table, white leather seats
on heavy black chairs
toddlers couldn’t move,
two high chairs the grandmotherly
babysitter captained three hours each
Monday from three to six while she sold
real estate across town when gas was
 only 99 cents. Fridays brought her back
while she got coiffed, the sitter donning
her ruffled full apron unafraid of accidental
spills that stiffened the young mother to fright.
Silk blouses weren’t meant to be in the
presence of four young’uns.
The apron, faded only in memory,
tucked away after fresh laundry was
brought up from the basement, children
now in bed.  Two feminists escaping
everyday connubiality in contrast,
one left alone while her husband built his practice,
 the other tending to one long retired from the railroad
Content, ‘bacco stored in cheek.

Evelyn Asher – December 2011

Please share your comments about a faded apron or another topic on your mind today.   My friend Aviva, a hairdresser, shared a story about her black apron she wears while highlighting her clients' hair.  She chuckles when she reaches her hands in the pockets of the apron she has had for over ten years, not thinking she would pick up her craft again and  finding money she forgot was there.