The Apron's Gentle Embrace

In the quiet drawer, a soft, faded cloth,
The apron rests, a keeper of the past.
Each worn-out stitch, a story, like a moth
That flutters through the memories built to last.

It smells of flour, of spices, warm and deep,
Of cinnamon swirls and apples baked with care,
The kitchen's heart, where secrets it would keep,
And comfort offered, banishing all despair.

It felt the rhythm of her gentle hands,
The flour dusting, the kneading, soft and slow.
It caught the tears, from childhood's shifting sands,
And witnessed wisdom, in her quiet glow.

The hurried brush against a bustling hip,
The sudden hug that squeezed it close and tight,
The whispered stories, from a loving lip,
That filled the air with wonder and with light.

A silent confidante, through sun and rain,
It bore the stains of life, both sweet and sour.
It knew her laughter, eased her silent pain,
And marked the passing of each precious hour.

More than mere fabric, it's a tender hold,
A tactile echo of a love so true,
A warmth remembered, precious as pure gold,
Connecting the past with all that's fresh and new.

It symbolizes home, a gentle, soft embrace,
A woven legacy, from heart to loving heart,
Holding the essence of a cherished place,
A timeless comfort, playing its own part.

- Khushi Kaul