My grandmother’s hat stays
It speaks to me of Sundays
And wonders where the white gloves went
It must have come for Easter
Absorbing words of resurrection
In a church out on the plains
Made nervous by wind
For prairie winds are ruthless
With an appetite for hats
It whispers of her small indulgence
Velvet flowers on a rim
Pink and cream with eyes of pearls
Peeking out of navy netting
That hides the place her hat pin pierced
Anchored in unruly tresses
It remembers things I never knew
Stories of her longing
She left one fine piece of jewelry
And a long dress of mossy green
A dozen worn and homemade aprons
At least one hundred recipes
Her hat looks quite odd on me
I place it on my head again
Listening for what it can tell
Of a time that wasn’t mine
And the woman we both knew
Like this post? Subscribe to have new posts sent to you by email the same day they are posted.
Leave a Reply