by carrkm

Mama always wore an apron,
No matter what the chore.
You’d even see her from the road,
As she waved it from the door.

It was great for wiping hands,
For drying those childhood tears.
And those dirty little smudges
Behind those tiny ears.

And when father saw her wave it,
As he labored in the field,
He knew t’was time for dinner,
When the apron she would wield.

When she would stop at the garden,
It made such a handy sack.
And when she’d look for eggs,
It was always full when she came back.

For me, the days of dress-up,
Meant, oh, so much more
When during my childhood play,
I would don the apron my mama wore.



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