PALMETTO POEM: The Christmas Apron

By Marjory Wentworth, contributing editor

Unfolding my grandmother’s apron, tucked
deep in a box of Christmas decorations,
I rub my hands across the wrinkled
cream colored cloth as thin as gauze
and the bright red and blue boxes circling
the hem and see her standing at the stove
wearing her Christmas apron, stirring pots
on every burner, a turkey already roasting
in the oven, plates of gingerbread men
cooling on the counter. Each one her own
creation. Dozens of cousins, aunts, and uncles
circle the kitchen table in a haze
of coffee, bacon, and cigarettes. Damp wool
hats and mittens steam on the radiator
beneath the kitchen windows thick with frost.
My grandfather hauls in wood in from the shed,
smelling of pipe smoke and peppermints,
shaking fresh snow from his plaid flannel sleeves.

It’s as if my childhood was inscribed
on this stained handful of cloth, scattered
with a celebration of ornaments
tied with green ribbon and a tiny tag pinned
at the waistband — This was Nana’s apron.

Contributing editor Marjory Wentworth of Mount Pleasant is poet laureate of South Carolina. This poem is published with her permission