This morning in my writing, I remembered the old hat I found in Mom’s closet. It was one of her mother’s old church hats.
She let me play with it, but it didn’t take long for me to see that it wasn’t really my style. I think I was nine or ten. With permission, I deconstructed the hat and wore it for years, till I lost it somewhere in the field between the woods and our house.
It fit perfectly with my idea of myself as an explorer, with my radioactive Army watch on my wrist and my eyes on the horizon. Dad found that watch in one of the used cars he sold and I begged for it; it was my first timepiece.
Random memories from a feral childhood. Maybe one day I’ll be good enough to draw the faces under those hats.