Tied.

I’ll never wear it and I’ll never give it away.

So it sits, my mother’s fancy apron, in the drawer of a credenza, under the tablecloth we use twice a year.

At her house, it was kept on a shelf in the linen closet, next to the hand towels. Once, toward the end of her life, when congestive heart failure was wracking her body with phlegmy coughs, I saw the tip of its sash sticking out from under the door, as if to remind me of her loveliness.

My mother had a lot of aprons, ranging from plain to pretty, but this one stood alone. Its sheer organza, embroidered with green and yellow flowers, marked it as special. She tied it around her tidy waist on Passover, and for company on Saturday nights, removing it once the hors d'oeuvres were out of the oven and my father belted “who wants a high ball?” to the guests.

Yesterday, I panicked because I wasn’t sure the apron was in the credenza. I’ve been losing things lately - a pair of delicate earrings shaped like bows, a lightweight black sweater - misplaced and driving me crazy. On this, my third Mother’s Day without a mother, I wanted to touch her prettiness, so was relieved to find it where it belonged.

I remember when Mother’s Day shifted from a day where I gave, to a day where I also received. Having a mother and being one was more than an exchange of cards - it was an exercise in posture. I may have looked strong, but my fortitude was delicate. One shift from either side - my mother’s low-blood-pressure, my kids’ high fevers - and I wobbled, struggling to steady myself, knowing I had to, because both motherhood and daughterhood demanded it.

Bookends insist that we don’t topple.

Lately, I play songs my mother liked - Liza singing New York or Barbra belting out People - as I walk, so I can feel her. I need to, because the longer she’s gone, the less I cry. I want to yearn for her because when I break a little, I can let her in. And feel like a daughter again.

I close my palm around the apron’s sash. I think of the day, soon after Philip and I were engaged, when my parents invited his for brunch. I barely talked on the drive to New Jersey, worried that his parents would find mine too suburban. As we pulled into the driveway, I winced at the bald spot on our front lawn, wishing my father didn’t think sod was a waste of money. We got out of the car, Philip’s mother holding a beautiful box of chocolates in front of her like a tray.

The front door opened. And there were my smiling parents. My father was handsome, tennis-fit and tanned, in his good sports shirt and slacks. And my mother. My sweetheart of a mother. She emerged, her pretty yellow apron as neat and well-cared for as she was. She opened her arms and smiled her smile. And said “Welcome to our home.”

Yesterday felt indulgent. No piling into the car to go to New Jersey. No arranging a platter of lox when we got there. None of the exhaustion of planning and giving. Only the luxury of a sleepy, lazy Sunday. A sunny walk. The joy of reading books side by side. The sweetness of linking arms on the sidewalk. Of being served an omelette. A mimosa in a crystal flute.

Queen for a day.

I was told to sit at the dining table to open cards and gifts.

I tugged at ribbons.

And felt the organza tug of apron strings.

Both pulling at my heart.

The back-and-forth of mother-love.