The Hat Lady

In a childhood of hats-

my uncles in homburgs and derbies,

Fred Astaire in high black silk,

the yarmulke my grandfather wore

like the palm of a hand

cradling the back of his head-

only my father went hatless,

even in winter.

And in the spring,

when a turban of leaves appeared

on every tree, the Hat Lady came

with a fan of pins in her mouth

and pins in her sleeves,

the Hat Lady came-

that Saint Sebastian of pins,

to measure my mother's head.

I remember a hat of dove-grey felt

that settled like a bird

on the nest of my mother's hair.

I remember a pillbox that tilted

over one eye-pure Myrna Loy,

and a navy straw with cherries caught

at the brim that seemed real enough

for a child to want to pick.

Last year when the chemicals

took my mother's hair, she wrapped

a towel around her head. And the Hat Lady came,

a bracelet of needles on each arm,

and led her to a place

where my father and grandfather waited,

head to bare head, and Death

winked at her and tipped his cap.