Apron Strings
       

I have lied about my mother.
She never wore aprons,
regularly burned dinners.
A student and teacher
with four young kids, she broke
multiple watches—wound
too tight—made lists she'd forget
on countertops and tables.

Forever distracted, forever
rushing about with heels
in one hand, a baby in the other,
who could blame her
for not meeting us at the door
with a hug and a cookie?

Number-cruncher, maker
of money, a modern woman
before the phrase was de rigueur,
my mother opened doors
in business and in solitude.
She would shape our lives
forever by leaving us alone.

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Copyright © 2016 Beth Gylys All rights reserved
from Rattle
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission