The Hat

I want to find my hat,
the one I got in Provincetown.
That trip when we surprised ourselves
bought our wedding rings and
packed them away
hidden
in the sock drawer for years,
waiting.

I want to find my hat,
the one I grabbed every morning after our son was born,
trying to hide my wild hair from the barista
on our early morning walks
after too short nights.

I want to find my hat,
the one I wore out running on my 40th birthday,
when I proved that I could make it all the way
around the lake,
my improbable heart close friend at my side.

I want to find my hat,
quick comfort,
old self.
Where are you now?

Swept up in the piles of soot and smoke and stink,
into the dumpster it went
without ceremony,
without
pause
on the day when it had to be done.

It wasn’t much.
Just a tan baseball hat
With a blue bill
Fading from the sun and
Frayed around the edges.

The daily companion.
The reminder of that trip we took together

You getting up early
to fill the house
with smells of cinnamon and pastry
like you always did
friends laughing over coffee
in a rented condo
when everything was simple.

No children to carry from that burning house
No hearts to protect but our own
tender hopeful
battered bruised
still healing hearts
daring to reach out
toward one another.

The equal sign emblazoned on the cap
clear message, simple code
I carried around
a way to recognize each other by
queers and allies
that symbol
reminding me who I am
and who you are
Equal. Worthy. Whole.
No matter what.

No,
I don’t want another hat,
thanks for asking.

I want that hat
The history it held.
The memories collected
in the sweat of the band,
the way we laughed at my terrible memory
standing in the Human Rights Commission store in Provincetown
so many years ago now,
wedding rings
tucked secretly in our pockets.

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