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I once owned a hat.

My dad bought me this hat on Boxing Day. One of the few times I can recall all four of us taking a trip to The Mall, we stopped into a store and all tried on this hat for a joke. Everyone looked ridiculous. My dad put it on my head and stopped and said, "I need to buy you this hat." He did. It was Forty-six dollars. It was a dark green with a black strap, one hundred percent wool. Kind of stiff for my liking, but they convinced me I needed it. I fell in love with it. It was strange to love a hat so much. I felt comfortable in it; hidden behind its brim.

We went out for lunch after that. I wore the hat. My dad stared at me and said, "You know, your eyes are the exact same colour as that hat."

One day, I lost this hat.

I left it at a restaurant, and felt sick with guilt when I finally realized I didn't have it, forty-eight hours later. I called people who may have seen in me in The Hat, I wrote a CraigsList posting in desperate attempt to send a word out about The Hat, I told everyone I knew that I lost it even though I hated even speaking of it because it made me sad to even think of it. I went back to the store where we'd purchased it. Only summer hats for sale. I inquired with a salesman about The Hat.

"Oh, kinda floppy brim, leather strap?"

"Yes, that's exactly it!"

"I bought the brown one!"

He told me they'd come in late August, they were big sellers, after all.

I've always been inexplicably hurt when I lose certain inorganic objects. I create life-spans for certain objects of memories. Even slight memories. Even memories involving people who couldn't remember. I get attached to things.

I went back in Late August, and there they were. The strap this year a reddish brown, a little darker in colour, but I thought maybe that was just because they were new.

They were fifty dollars. I didn't buy one. It didn't feel right. I felt like I was trying to fill a void I wasn't authorized to fill; though perhaps if I'd had fifty dollars I would have done it anyway.

Recently I met my parents for lunch, albeit bagged from a lack of sleep the night before. They'd just gotten back from a trip to Europe. They pulled over and my dad got out, wearing a familiar looking silhouette.

"It's too small for me, you can have it." He said as he walked towards me, tossing me The Hat. "Its from Italy!"

My mom found it the first day they were there. She carried it from place to place, afraid to pack it in her bag incase it lost its shape.

Its floppier, with a black buckle-strap, but otherwise, identical to the Original Hat. It fit my head more perfectly. It was like I was being reunited with The Hat after a short separation to make the love grow fonder. Or, I'm just comfortable behind its brim again.

The Hat is back. Thank you, parents.