It sat for many years upon a lightly “haired” head.
It heard the brum-brum-brum of Dad’s chainsaw deep in the woods.
It drank the sweat that ran from Dad’s brow as he planted potatoes in the blaring sun.
It shielded Dad from blow after blow from anxious and frustrated deer-flies that knew they were close to a fresh meal but just couldn’t figure out how to get it. The powerful blow from a raised hat that swiped the air was never enough to deter the voracious winged predators.
It bore witness to the screams the acres of raspberries directed towards Dad, “Prune me, feed me, till me, pick me!”.
It smelled the maple that curled up and around Dad’s head as he smoked a batch of Billy Burgers for week-end guests.
It yielded to the grasp of Dad’s hand as he ventured out the back door of the house on the farm, hell-bent on beating those, “damned potato – bugs”.
It pines for Dad now on my sofa.
It beckons to Dad to be worn.
It pleads with me to not leave the family.
It sleeps – maybe even dreams.
It hats could talk… I know it would have tales to tell.