Passing the Hat
by Ellen E. Hyatt
from Kakalak 2008: Anthology of Carolina Poets
Baby girl, wear this
the day they bury me.
I want you to, and don’t mind
what others say. I bought it
at Magar Hatworks on King
on a day when jasmine twirled
itself around palms on Broad,
honeysuckle climbed cottages
on Longitude Lane. The air was cool,
the sun warm, and I was more May
than December.
Now, I could’ve bought the cocktail hat,
fuchsia and ostrich on buckram
or the bridal, all white with silk roses,
bleached feathers on straw,
wove close and rich. But changed my mind—
it’s a right you know. Bought, instead,
this lavender hat with pheasant feathers
resting at the brim and on the crown,
spring birds in a nest.
So you wear this one, Baby—
you’ll be old enough to wear purple
by then. Guard my casket, and
when Cousin Jayne—remember, Baby,
your mama knew her before she added
that fancy Y to the middle of the plain name—
when she tries talking you out of the hat,
why, Baby Girl, you just show her,
show all of then you can wear Charleston
no matter where your mama came from
or how she ended up.
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