her apron is hanging in my closet
i’ve never worn it, but i see it every time
i rifle through my work clothes
even now it smells slightly of butter
the way my favorite aprons do
and i wonder about her favorite recipes
the things she baked for birthdays, for holidays, for sorrow
i met her — saw her — once when i was young and full of myself
did i say hello? i can’t even recall
but now i am older and realize
how swiftly a life runs away
i may never have the nerve to wear that apron
much less bake in it the things she baked
but when i see it, i remember
her apron smells like love
