This apron of mine is so stained ( it’s not new)
For I’ve worn it so often with work to do.
I’ve used it to wipe off my counter and hands,
And to open a myriad of tight lids on my cans.
It’s been used to wipe dirty smudges on ears
And it’s sometimes been used to dab away little tears.
It’s stained from flour and sugar and milk,
Vanilla and nutmeg, and half-and-half silk.
The pocket is smudged from things stored inside,
Like pencils and screw drivers, flower petals that died.
Though I’ve washed it and bleached it, the stains still remain
It’s old and it’s worn, but this apron I’ll claim.
It’s a symbol of wealth and a symbol of worth
‘Cause it’s naming and claiming the best title on earth.
The work is unnoticed and not recognized
By the charges I have – they’re too little of size.
Some day they’ll remember the pleasures of home
And appreciate the fact that my kitchen was throne.
For the hub of the house is surely the place
Where a family finds belonging and plenty of grace.
There is calm and there’s safety in the everyday things
Where kitchen’s the heart of the home – don’t you think?
The apron that’s worn and is stained for all time
Is a symbol of work and a mom’s sacrifice.
And the kitchen’s the place – at the end of the day
Where each kid belongs in his own special way.
The stories they share, the memories they make
Will carry them through the paths that they take.
And the apron that’s stained or ragged or torn
Will be waiting for them when they journey back home.