The Apron

I arrived at the lecture hall early, finding a seat close to the front but off to the side to avoid the direct line of the professor’s gaze, but close enough that my attention wouldn’t falter. I purposely picked a spot away from other students. I had my notebook open, pen in hand, waiting for the lecture to start. That’s when you walked in wearing a flannel shirt and bright red lipstick. That’s when I thought, please, God, don’t sit next to me.

With a big sigh, you shed your shoulder bag, purse, and books onto the seat right next to me. You were talking before you even sat down, and fast, about how your morning was going wrong. And how your young son was one of the delays on the way because you were figuring out the whole single parenting scene. I wondered if you were ever going to shut up. You talked entirely too much and with an annoying level of sass.

A week later I saw you on the bus, you caught my glance and said, “Hey, I know you!” And then you came and sat down next to me. Again. You planned on meeting a friend for brunch at this local joint called Sam’s. But your friend had bailed on you. You were irritated until you invited me instead. We sat there and ate breakfast over too many cups of drip coffee. You, the fireball with jet-black hair and me, the quiet low hum with dreads. Two souls collided.

Hanging in your kitchen was an apron smeared with your handprints made of white flour, as if you had just finished baking. I could almost smell the strawberry pie in the oven. But you won’t bake again, your hands will never roll dough or pinch piecrust into perfect little ridges that brown up in the oven.

Your house is so empty now that it lacked your essence. Your possessions create the illusion of closeness, as if your tangible but I can’t quite feel you. My eyes shot over to your bookshelves. Neatly stacked between the wood panels were all the theoretical words printed on the white pages of your books. Black and white, not grey, like you. My head pounded with confusion and spun with regret.

Too often in life we are shown the strawberry shortcake as the finished product, the strawberries neatly lined up in a circular artistic fashion. The frosting evenly spread with dollops perfectly spaced out. The cake that is consumed in seconds.

But you taught me that the only real way to bake a cake is to make a mess. You are going to spill things. You are going to drop things. You are going to miss-measure. You are going to dirty pans. And sometimes you have to alter the recipe all together. We spent most of our time wiping our floured hands onto our aprons. Cleaning the mess for more mess.

On the road that rainy Saturday morning, I was headed to say goodbye to you. Driving to your hometown the familiar scenery whizzed by, as Willy Tea blared from the speakers. I had made this trip many times, always seeing you in the end, but not this time. This time it would be different.

I arrived at your funeral early. Standing in the welcoming line, I saw your son dressed in a suit and tie. He said hello as he waved to me. I waved back. I walked in and averted my eyes from the open casket. The place was packed. I walked into the overflow room. I stood in the middle. Just then a man came out of the small viewing area and said, “There is room behind the family, and they are…” I am the type of individual who will politely decline a glass of water even if my mouth feels like the Mohave Desert. Before he could finish, I was past him.

When I sat down on that pew, I realized where I was. Your funeral ended up being standing room only, outside. You placed me there and I don’t even believe in magic.

When I think of you, I want to write about your intellect, your activism, your unwavering spirit in the face of adversity, your radiant heart, your recognizable laugh, your hard working hands, your contagious smile and the little squeak you uttered when you hugged me really tight, but in the end it came down to an apron hanging in your house smeared in your handprints made of white flour.

I wear your apron now, the one with the patch that reads, “Listen to Bob Marley”. The one I wipe my hands on when things get messy. Because “One good thing about music- when it hits, you feel no pain.”