The white rick rack turns of the ribbing against the floral green and blue flow like the emotions of the generations past.  The back and forth curves, like the daughter of my great-grandmother.  She was strong, learned it from her mama, but the strength turned. My broken and abandoned grandmother took the apron with distrust and control. 

With a family of 10, she nourished them with meals from her garden, she made flannel diapers for her babies, read her Bible, and kept quiet through the boisterous beatings in the night.  Hard and repressed, she gave the apron to my mother.  The movement of the rick rack kept its independence and bordered stubbornness.  The deep pockets, a place to hide her prematurely weathered hands.  The fabric stayed cool, even with the heat of the oven, and internal elevation from all of the rushing, polishing, and folding.  She had an obsession with cleanliness that kept her busy. Avoiding herself, gaining control.

Three generations of women baked their husbands dinner in that apron.  They laid their children to sleep, whispered prayers, and hoped for a better tomorrow.  Like the women before me, I too have hidden myself in housework to keep my loose ends from spilling over.  The delicate white lace in loose loops across my back feels like the only thing holding me together at times.  We are all hurt women who know how to handle spilled milk, but never the mess of  tantrums or unkempt emotions.  I keep my pockets filled with the remnants I collect from my children-- a marble here, a matchbox car there.  When I feel buried in life, I fidget with those things, to remind myself of who I really want to be, despite my inherited inadequacies.

The apron stays tied until the groanings of the children become snores, and the work for the day is done.  Hung on an oxidized nail, crooked from the strength of the old house, down the steps of a white-washed cellar.  The neck hung like a ghost empty of it's soul.  A hauntingly beautiful garment.  It is as it is. The rips and tears are still there; patched over, and mended so skillfully that they are hidden under the hope of love that can still be felt, even under all of the messes.