Ellen Williams

THE HAT

Hats have a mind of their own. They don't care about others comfort and will settle on the wearer's head wherever it suits them or will swiftly make a quick departure on a sudden wind, whenever it pleases them. The perturbed owner usually chases the impudent hat, to no avail, looking quite foolish, in pursuit, with knees bent high in an awkward sprint. Hats are fickle. They hold no allegiance whatsoever to any one caretaker or owner. They love to fly about in the street, on a strong and furious wind, swirling up and cascading down and spinning in frenzied flurries, without sense or forethought and with utter disdain for any object in its uncharted path. By nature, it is flamboyant, impulsive and will tease the owner with tantalizing coquettish behavior, as if to taunt and challenge capture and confinement, always beckoning but never embracing. There ensues a game, between hat and owner similar to hide and seek, with frightening surprises and mystifying puzzling disappearances. The game concludes in gleeful and warm exchanges, but this time, suddenly, and without the slightest warning, the hat, on a sudden gust of wind, perhaps a March wind, crashed into a nearby most foul accumulation of brackish collection of putrid waters, surrendering it's once brilliant lavish felts, bows, and silk ties of rainbow colors, and in despair, lay helplessly, while desperately struggling, remembering pastel mornings of drifting clouds floating overhead in a tranquil azure sky. Inadvertently, its felt, velvet, and silks, once caressed by young maidens unwillingly sucked in the murky waters and slowly and insidiously relinquished it's once brilliant hues and fashionable design, rendering it fit only for a gutter urchin or a street walker or a horse's mangy head with holes torn out for ears. The hat had become worthless and full of shame. It once had pride and nobility and wore its thick feathers of envious purples, crimsons and majestic bronze in sprightly aplomb, daring the onlooker to stare to the point of impoliteness should the gaze remain too long , too lovingly should bold admiration overtake one's better senses and too jealous in a need to confiscate, seclude and own.

The hat, longing for restoration and pride, struggles, at first, seemingly in vain, with it's limp and lifeless form. Then, beyond all measurement of anguish, it willed itself to grasp the wind encircling its brim and slowly began to feel a warm breath of life embracing its sunken and misshapen form. Memories returned of belonging and being tended and groomed, being briskly brushed and admired, and the hat, with great effort, began to lift itself into the air remembering with each effort, what it was like to be free, without boundaries or limitations, and to join in warm companionship with a loving new wearer and vowing, this time, not to be tempted to ride a soft breeze, for there will always be a tempting soft breeze, sailing by.... .beckoning...

 

Ellen Williams was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease five years ago. During the past year, she began to keep a journal expressing her experience. This led to other subjects and formats, such as poems, short stories and essays. Several poems and an essay have since appeared in local papers. Previously, Williams had earned a Master's degree, practiced as a counselor and had not seriously explored creative writing. Today, she is exuberant about her new interest and the joy it has given to her when sharing her works with her family and friends. She feels fortunate to have discovered such a fascinating challenge at this stage of her life. She will celebrate her 74th on the 4th of July.