The apron

It’s a beautiful apron

with frills and lace-trimmed pockets.

Anyone would be proud to wear it.

A symbol of competence, order and trust —

but also of love, care, comfort and hugs.

This apron holds secrets whispered in kitchens at dusk,

lies and truths it did not ask to bear.

Rumours, stories, tales of woe and triumph.

It has absorbed tears and laughter,

contained anguish in its cotton folds.

In its generous pockets

you will find recipes, old and new —

and maybe even a photograph or two.

There are tinctures, tonics and essential oils,

plus a paracetamol when all else fails.

Rummage further and find paper and pen:

lists for groceries, birthdays and anniversaries;

appointments for doctors, schools, hairdressers, dentists —

and, occasionally, a social occasion squeezed between.

There’s more in these pockets if you dig deeper:

a duster, a spoon, a hair slide rescued from the floor.

Always a tissue — for tears or sweat —

and to wipe noses less than their best.

At the top of the apron, unassumingly placed,

a smaller pocket of quiet grace —

though mostly it bulges with overflow

from the crowded compartments below.

Tied round the waist and looped round the neck,

beautiful bows keep it faithfully in place.

No notice is taken as the pockets grow heavier —

for robust is the apron, and steadfast the wearer.

Then, out of the blue — late in life —

a proverbial hand descends from the sky

and pulls at the ties, loosening the bows,

releasing both apron and owner from their roles.

Empty, it falls to the ground.

The pockets hang slack, stretched out of shape.

The wearer, bewildered, drops to her knees:

Where should she go? What does she need?

Who are we when our children leave the nest?

What part shall we play in society’s quest?

There’s a wardrobe of gowns if you open the door.

I found mine. I hope you find yours.