APRON.

Grandmother's apron and the memories.

An apron. Grandmother’s apron, there in the bag from the house clearance. You remember her wearing it and others like it; the flower patterned cotton cloth aprons that she always seemed to wear whenever you saw her, with the two pockets where she kept her pegs and cigarettes, that went over the head and shoulders and tied about the waist, coming down just above the knees. You remember trying to count the flowers; the blues and greens or pinks and reds, and her hands tucked in looking for the pegs to hang clothes on the outside line or the cigarette which she’d light up and inhale deeply especially if Granddad had got on her nerves which he often seemed to do. You’d go there Sundays with the parents and there’d be Gran with cigarette in between her thin lips puffing away and taking out the cigarette to give you a quick kiss on the cheek. Don’t get too close to your granddad or he’ll cough and splutter all over you, Gran’d say, peering through the gap between the door and the doorjamb at your granddad in the huge armchair by the fireplace staring into the flames licking at the coals. Go out into the garden, Gran’d say, see if you can see the fairies at the bottom, and you’d go out looking, but never saw anything apart from the weeds and birds and aged trees. You lift up the apron and sniff it; it smells old and over washed. Hard to imagine Gran wearing it. You put it against your cheek, feel the texture, the memory of Gran behind the cloth; your cheek then younger, tender, brushing against the cloth, smelling cooking, cabbages, tobacco smoke. He’ll end up in hospital he will, Gran said of Granddad, giving a nod of her head, indicating towards the parlour, where Granddad sat by the fire coughing and moaning. He needn’t think I’ll be there to tend to him either, she said, her face straight and hard as nails. You hold up the apron to the light; faded the colours; failing the flowers; pale against the cloth. He’s been like it for years, Gran said, coughing, spluttering, and moaning about his back passage and how he can’t go to the lavatory. You put the apron over your head, try it on, and tie it at the back. Looked better on Gran. Out of fashion now. No one wears them now. You lift up the hem and sniff. You’d wipe tears on here years back when one of the parents had scolded. What's he done now? Gran had said. You all right boy? She’d ask giving you the briefest of looks. Yes, Gran, you replied. You take off the apron and fold it neat. Gran’s dead now and Granddad lies elsewhere in some lonely spot far from where she lies beneath her white stone. You put the apron in your backpack. A souvenir of old times. Memories soaked up in the cloth. Childhood days in each flowery inch. What happened to the rest you’ll never know now. Just the one apron flowery and old and of little use. Just a memory item, that’s your need, that’s your excuse.