I remember the feel of the soft terrycloth apron as she wiped the tears from my face. The cloth was thin from being washed a couple of times a week for years. It was a half apron, which wrapped around her waist and covered her to just above the knee. It was originally white, I’m sure, but now was a dingy yellow grey with yellow flowers and green leaves. It had yellow and white gingham trim and yellow and white gingham apron strings that seemed to magically tie themselves. She would grab it from her neatly folded stack, fluff it out and wrap it around her waist. As soon as her hands disappeared behind her back they reemerged, smoothed the fabric of the apron down and sought the next task.
The smell in that kitchen was a strange brew of coffee, pork chops, rice, cream corn, fried okra, white acre peas, peach cobbler and White Shoulders. I remember the rays of sunlight on a bowl of freshly washed bright green figs from her tree on the counter next to a colander heaped with deep red strawberries. There were pots bubbling on the stove, children running through the back door and all of the sound and commotion that came with a house full of family. But she seemed unaware of anything but me in that moment. With one hand she lifted the lid to the sugar bowl, with the other she took her long handled iced-tea spoon and dipped it gently into the glittery white fine crystals, scooping out a spoonful and silently replacing the lid. She stirred the sugar into her glass of iced-tea and quickly wiped the sweat off the sides of the glass with her apron. She handed me the glass and whispered, “Take a sip." I gulped some tea and sighed. I was trying to stop the tears but it wasn’t working. “Take a deep breath,” she said quietly. As I inhaled and exhaled, she did too. Her eyes never left mine.
“I feel like someone just ripped my heart out,” I said. I was immediately aware of how loud my voice was and how it cracked awkwardly. This time, as she took a long slow breath in and let it out, her eyes were closed. When she opened them again, she placed her hand on my chest, feeling the thud-thud of my heart.
“Hmmm...Your heart is fine. So, what’s the truth?”
I felt pinched and then remembered how much she loved me. “He hurt my feelings,” I said.
“Yes,” she nodded slowly.
I stared down at the brick floor of her kitchen, then my eyes rose to find her favorite apron. I was suddenly thinking about what a workhorse it was. How many times had I seen her wipe her hands on it, carry apples or potatoes in it, mop up a spill, or use it as a hot pad to carry a hot dish? She wore it while she ironed or cleaned the house. She wore it in the garden. I remembered her wrapping it around me when I’d help her in the kitchen. If she wanted to recruit my help, all she needed to do was take it off and hold it out to me. She would reach for the next one in her stash, usually her second favorite, the one with the red apples and the red and white gingham strings and wrap it around her waist and we’d work. I’d talk, she’d listen. I’d wash dishes while she rolled out the biscuit dough. That stained yellow and white apron was soft, strong and seemed to always be working. Seeing it always brought me comfort.
We stared at each other for a moment. Although our age difference was more than forty years, she seemed to understand me completely. She was smiling her gentle smile, the one that let me know she delighted in me. Even in this moment when I felt broken, she was smiling and happy because she was with me. She wiped the last tear from my face. She squeezed my arm and stared into my eyes, transferring some of her wisdom, some of her strength, some of her courage. I desperately wanted to be as strong and graceful as she was. I wanted her to tell me how to make that boy love me. I wanted her to fix it, to fix me. But she knew so much more than I could understand at the time. Years later I would remember everything about that moment...except for the boy. Not one letter of his name would hang around in my mind.
"I love you," I said.
"Oh, my love," she said as her eyes lit up and her smile widened. "My cup runneth over." She hugged me tenderly. I might have heard the softest chuckle.
“Go splash some cold water on your face. Go on,” she whispered. As I walked away she squeezed my hand and let it go.
