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It
hangs there on the kitchen wall,
A tattered apron, that is all,
But there is something I recall,
The love when Mother wore it.
From
early morn 'till setting sun,
Her work, it seems, was never done,
Us children kept her on the run,
That apron, I adore it.
It
tells of when I tried to flee,
When chased by angry bumble bees,
And then my Mother rescued me,
And in the process tore it.
It
tells of when I stayed home ill,
With burning fever, then a chill,
And on her apron, tonic spilled,
Because I tried to pour it.
My
mother had no fancy clothes,
With satin ribbons, lace or bows,
But in that apron, love she showed,
And we could not ignore it.
And
now it hangs upon the wall,
What looked so large, appears so small,
A mem'ry since I learned to crawl,
I know now why she wore it.
by David Ronald Bruce Pekrul
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