The Apron

by Linda Scacco

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She wears an apron, 
always,
red-stained with tomato sauce 
and wisps of flour 
so that when she wipes her 
chapped hands across her belly
puffs of dust float into the air 
and into my hair
and when she laughs too— 
throwing her head back 
mouth open
wide enough to show some 
missing teeth 

My grandmother— 
we call her Noni 
and we speak every day
usually in her kitchen 
sometimes sitting at the table while she 
shapes pasta between her nimble fingers 
or pats dough into smooth baby’s bottom softness

We speak every day until 
I am 16—when she dies 
on a warm afternoon in June

She speaks only Italian and I 
speak only English but we 
understand each other in so 
many ways, not just in language,
in fact, less in language than 
in being together in the kitchen
where the smells of fresh-baked bread 
and tomato sauce always feel like home

And it still does, and although 
she is no longer here
I smell her still and I hear her laughter 
and I see the flour coming 
off her apron and into my hair
 
Now in my kitchen,
my own grandchildren hovering 
nearby, I wear an apron, 
always,
my hair graying so that it
looks like flour dust sometimes

And when I see it in my hair
it’s her 
visiting me

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Linda Scacco is a semi-retired psychologist who loves stories about family, connections, and resilience. She loves to write, swim, and make soup, and can be found at the gym every morning. Her previously published works include a book for children called Always My Grandpa: A Story for Children Dealing with Alzheimer’s Disease (Magination Press, 2005). She has also published several poems, short stories and some op-ed pieces related to gender and parenting. 

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