It felt momentous; every May Queen for as long as anyone could remember had worn this apron. Even my best frock was as tattered as a rag so I was glad I’d have this pretty covering. Delicate embroidered flowers nestled along the edge of the apron. Before the procession I had to add my own flower. I chose a spot not so on show, to less stitch, more stab my haphazard little daisy.
I tried the apron on that evening; ma pointed and named the flowers to teach my younger sisters a little more of our world. She lingered over the lilac, stitched as a spray of purple French knots; a tear forming as she revealed.
“This, this was your grandmama’s flower all those years ago.”