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Grandma's Apron

In the corner I see a folded apron,  brown with years of stain.
As I draw it to my searching eyes,  I see the sweat and feel the pain.

All the years of toiling is over,  the apron will never wrap around.
The time is past for the pressure,  no more soil will there be ground.

The sweat is from the hot summers,  when there was only blistering air,
The room was filled with heat,  so hot it climbed the stair.

I watched her cooking from on high,  quietly perched on the top step,
For I didn't dare to bother her,  or Grandpa would beat me with a strap.

Grandpa was not a very nice person,  he was always growling and yelling,
And on a few rare occasions,  he would beat her, but I'm not telling.

He said it would be very bad for me,  if I told my mother the real story.
Why grandma's arm was broken,  grandma told me not to worry.

She would just turn her eyes toward heaven,  and mutter a silent prayer for him.
Why she didn't pray for herself,  that subject seemed so dim.

But now she isn't around anymore,  to toil all day in the kitchen.
With all the pots and pans silent,  her thread and needle for quick stitching.

What she said the day before she left;  I will think of now and ever.
She said that she loved him still,  and she would love him forever.

Now I have my own kitchen,  where I go to cook a meal.
I go to that place quite often,  where remembrance I do steal.

As I take a pot off the hook,  I turn the air conditioner off.
I like to feel the heat on my face,  so hot it makes me cough.

I try to see my grandma's face,  always smiling and full of cheer.
Though her row was full of weeds,  I never saw her shed one tear.

God has her now, in His kitchen,  I'll bet that He appreciates her cooking.
As fine as any as He has ever had,  I can tell you that without looking.

by Allen R Cleveland

06/22/98
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