My Uncle’s Wolves Hat
When my uncle gave me his baseball hat,
he told me, as a joke, that I could have it because he didn’t want it.
As he placed it on my head, backwards, I saw his eyes light up
and his cheeks turn to apples with a smile.
Before the day was over, he promised,
we would go to the park.
I remember the sun resting over the green hills
that guarded the swings and the slides.
I recall his tender touch as he hoisted me onto his shoulders,
and I remember the feeling of the surreal
as we passed the horse shoe court that was empty
but filled at the same time, empty of people,
filled with the loneliness that I dreaded because I knew
I’d need to say goodbye at the end of the day.
Had you been a child on the merry-go-round that my uncle pushed
(almost too fast),
you would have felt your stomach drop, like mine,
and you would laugh as my uncle’s baseball cap would fly
off of my head and land near the slide.
Years later I give the hat to my best friend’s little brother,
because the Wolves are his favorite team.
And my best friend and I promise to take him to the park
after breakfast.
Look how the dew still lies on the grass of the baseball field,
Tom says to Andrew.
Andrew walks between us, and Tom turns the hat
from backwards to forwards. Then Tom tells us
the story of when he got a concussion while playing hockey.
I thought I’d die, he says, looking down while
shoving his hands in his pants.
I was out for a few minutes, but it seemed like a second.
Are concussions like sleeping or dreaming? Andrew asks,
looking up to his brother.
No, he says, It’s more like blinking,
but in the same moment, time passes.
I look up to see the geese
and what they do in the late fall-
fly south.