Thursday, March 20, 2014

78. I Love ... my Dad's hat.

I have it -
my Dad's hat.

He wore it to church.
That's probably about the only place
because he didn't go anywhere else

Funny that I love that hat
so much when it really 
wasn't him.
It really wasn't who he was.

A work hat.
A driving helmet.

That's who he really was.

The man never went bare headed.
The last thing on out the door -
the first thing off in the door ...
a hat.

I see him with this hat ...
running around the rim with his fngers,
flipping it on his head with such ease.

I see me grabbing it with a giggle,
off his head and onto mine,
it falling over my eyes;
his patient laughter.

I see me in the backseat of the car at nighttime -
me in the middle.
Sister asleep on one side,
brother on the other,
mother's head against the window.
Me, awake - keeping vigil.
Staring at the image of my Dad
in his hat.
even way back then
that I had to carefully file that moment.
that it wouldn't last.

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