Photo by Mariénne Kreitlow
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
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