Hat

mother ann's rocking chair
fruitlands museum
harvard, massachusettes 

Hat

As they say,

all faults contained here

are my own

                                                Elizabeth Alexander

                                                The Light of the World

That last day you came through

the door you were wearing the hat

you always wore or

at least a hat and out

doors I never saw you

without one.  But you’d come in

to visit to have tea to stay

for dinner and make your way

into your lives like a blind

wise man shining a light

you yourself could never,
ironically, be guided by

though I’m not sure why.

Ghosts you’d once told me
though I don't think you used
that word.  Maybe you said
once you thought you were
crazy and it hung on you like
a fug though I don't know you
used either of those words
either.

Standing tall as anyone

I’d ever known you bent

your head and took the hat

into your hand and rolled it,

unrolled it rolled it unrolled it

and hung it on the top

of the door where it would stay

for the next two years

and everyone then who’d drop by

would walk under the umbra

of it depending on the day

because that door faced west

mostly, though it opened

north and everyone who wanted

a word with me or my father

would have to walk in from there

with the wind that blew

gravel and stray sand and I swear

it got into everything
the cupboards the plates

and set rings under the jars

of pickles and settled right up into

the corner of the stairs to stay

the way you would and take up

the day wherever it was

wherever you’d left it off.  And you’d

talk a talk that would take her time

meaning something, but eventually

it would and I’d know it, mostly,

unless I was distracted

which was mostly, by the kids

you’d come to see and praise

or the tea you’d taught me about

how you took it though today

I couldn’t say: sugar?  cream?

one bag or two?

And you left that day

without your hat and I never did

notice right away and later on
on the phone

when I’d driven back home

you’d ask and I said no

and you’d say ok and we both believed

it.  It wasn’t until I was

back those too few weeks

in the summer that I would look

up on the edge of that door

and there it was and those two years

of dust because I never saw you

there that last summer, at the house

I mean, I saw  you, just not there

at the house, it was always out

at the boat ramp say or in

your car on the road and you’d

wave or if you were sitting

idle looking at gulls you’d

invite yourself to tea

but you never made it

down and I’d never see you

again, not ever, because something

must’ve delayed either you

or me those days and the summer

was done

and that was that.  You died

the day after Christmas

in a cold car your wife was warming

after you’d felt under the weather but refused

the ambulance.  You’d said you didn’t

need it.  I wonder: was your head

covered?  I know it’s not

important, it’s just I’d like to

remember that while everything was

letting go inside of you that there was

something in some way staying

upright because I’ve got this thing lately

about keeping it all in

under a warm enough head:

if I’m warm enough I won't be distracted

if I’m warm enough I won’t lose my mind

if I’m warm enough I won’t squander

                                the only time we have; I’d be

able to look at everything full on,

even your dying, the snow

on your boots melting in the under the glove-

box heater, and a great warmth under your skin

taking its time fading.  And that hat, still

on that door, waiting for you

to head in.