I suppose we were all, at some point, tied to her apron strings. And if not tied, we loosely wandered through the flowered fabric that smelled of sugar and dough — this apron draped across the welcoming belly (also filled with sugar and dough) of grandma Elsie.
Both my grandmother and mother did the kitchen dance. My grandma, mostly around us. And it was my mother who pulled me in, doing the steps backwards, so I wouldn’t have to. From farmhouse to apartment, I didn’t have the words for it then, but I suppose it was never about the floor, always about the dance. The steps each of them took, to make our lives better, my life better, I will ever be grateful. The only real way to give thanks, I guess, is to keep dancing, to keep you dancing.
I got the wink from heaven’s kitchen yesterday, when I received the five-star review on the apron. A woman purchased one of my dance aprons from a store in Florida and then went to the website to get more for her friends. Filling the dance floor. And I can’t stop smiling, twirling, because I know the connection doesn’t end, it keeps growing. Sometimes a word at a time, sometimes even an apron string.
Maybe we never know what it will be that is going to connect us — keep us connected. So we have to stay in motion. Continue reaching out. The floor will keep changing. Sometimes pulled right up from underneath us. But we are stronger than that. We keep dancing.
