The Little Purple Apron
I felt of it's worn cotton, looked through it's tattered cross stitching, saw the cast iron placed over the opening in the Fantastic Majestic, wiped the downward trickling tear from my cheek, then felt of the rush of emotion charging my soul. It's small remnants of color sneaking through inside the pocket, permitted me to go back some 55 years to when Momma had had me sit at her treadle, as she patiently taught me to rock my feet forward and back, to the sweet melody of the Singer. Immediately, all these extended years past, I could feel...
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