The Old Hat

I kept it
hidden, so
only I could
touch it
and smell it.

Selfish of me
I know,
but it was all I had left of him.

His dirty, old
brown farmer's
the ones with
the ear flaps
that hang down
on the side of your head
like an extra pair of ears.

Funny really.

All of us kids
laughed when
he put that
hat on to
face the cold biting wind
on his way out to milk the cows.

And now as I stand here
in the barn
with the ghosts of animals
to keep me warm,
I hold your hat
close to my face
for one last time.

I stuff it into a knothole of a beam;
from the wood your father cut down
and I leave you there.

For the farm is sold now,
and I am moving to the city.

and your hat belongs to this place,
not to me.


(C) Copyright 2001
Deborah L. MacDonald-Beauchamp
All Rights Reserved