(for Lauren Just Giel)

Our mother’s drawers and cupboards,
every one an archeological dig—

the farther in we go, the deep
the dive into decades past.

Her pristine, unfolded nurse’s
caps lie ready for the job she quit

just before I was born. The
surprise of a gift, I imagine,

given at a baby shower, which,
she, heavy with me, must have

opened, laughed at, perhaps held
up to the assembled women, then

modeled, tying the joke apron
around the two of us.

“Expectant mother,” it says, on
still-bright orange cotton

the color of fresh lava decorated
with cartoons of a very PG woman,

captions joking among other things,
about the possibilities of twins.

I was the first of two, my womb mate
sister-to-be taking up residence in that

space a couple of years later. And though
that sister who unearthed this treasure

and I doubt that the recipient ever
actually wore the apron, we now

look at each other and grin,
knowing instantly who must

inherit it—the next generation
in the family—her daughter,

my niece—expecting her
second child, a daughter, whose

great grandma has left her
such a legacy of love.