The following was published in The Ignatian Literary Magazine, Spring 2011.
I found a hat on the ground. Thought it could be yours. Could be big enough to fit your head. Or small enough. I picked it up, dusted off the dirt and grass, put it on for safe keeping. The outside was black and blue, brown and gray. Cut, shaped, geometrically designed. Nice, but not for me. I wasn’t expecting the warmth I would feel when I put it on. Plush and lined with a cushion, felt like. But it kept slipping down. With each step the brim would loom nearer and nearer to my eyebrows. Then my eyelashes. Then my cheekbones. I kept pushing it up, but it kept slipping down. I couldn’t run with it. I couldn’t tighten it either. My head was two sizes too small.
I saw you standing. The entrance to my building with my friends. I ran to you. Tripped and scraped my knee. The hat flew off, sailing yards in front of me. You came to me, picked up the hat, put it back on my head. “It’s yours,” I say. “I don’t really like it, you should wear it,” you say. “It’s too big for me, I can’t run with it,” I try to explain. But you’re laughing. Laughing at something someone said. You walk away with them. I run to catch up, but fall. The hat you placed on my head is too big. I can’t see. This time you don’t turn around. You’re already gone.