Grandmother's apron

My grandmother is nearly 85 and in recent years has had her fair share of medical mishaps. Through all of this, she's remained fiercely independent and cognitively top-notch. But age wearies her and although she can play bridge, debate politics and annoy the living daylights out of me, she's not the woman she once was.

When we arrived last night at her apartment for an early evening meal she was there in her old apron. Her hair looked different, mostly because she had to lie down in between each stage of the recipes she still recalls from the depths of her culinary heart. So ruffled squashed patches there were. But her blue and white checked apron was there, looking cleaner than I remember. That's probably because she doesn't have the energy to cook, even for herself. But she lay on her bed six or seven times yesterday; as long as it took to complete meal preparation for her family. Her face is different: OK, so it's wrinkly and spotted by the mark of sun-years, but she just looks tired. But the ties on her apron were neatly in a bow. The ends are shorter than they once were, probably because she hasn't been able to exercise for the past few years as she once did. But it still fit, that apron of my childhood.

And it felt like I was a child again. In the bosom of my crazy, multi-cultural, food-loving family. I felt safe and then I was nearly in tears. It's my turn to be the responsible mother. To nurture and to feed and to be the salve when the world wounds externally and within. The knowledge that last night will probably be the last time we sit at her table and eat, drink and laugh makes my heart ache, but it was nice to have the foresight to appreciate that possibility and soak it all up.

My grandmother's apron will be a more important keepsake than all the silver goblets and crazy trinkets she's collected through her most fascinating life. Lucky, really, given that my daughter decided that painting the paper whilst wearing my green apron was boring and decided to instead cover the apron in daubs of her hue of choice - murky brown (also known as 'all the shades of paint mixed together in the one pot').