Over the years, my knitter friend Linda has made me many hats, but the one I remember best was a wonderful burgundy in the softest angora. It was light and warm, and I wore it every day when I walked to Vancouver General Hospital to visit mom in November of 2013. She was there for 17 days with pneumonia, and on my return trip one night, the hat vanished from my pocket. I retraced my steps for many blocks, looking under hedges and in overgrown patches, but it was thoroughly gone. It was a sad time, and the disappearance of that hat seemed somehow appropriate.
When mom died a year later, I appropriated the matching grey hat that Linda had knit for her when she made my burgundy one. It was a comfort and a pleasure to pull on something mom had worn so often. But this spring it somehow ended up in the washing machine and emerged half-size, felted down to a tea-cozy.
Linda is a forgiving person, and is giving me another chance. This week she was at my place measuring the new burgundy hat she's almost finished for me. I hope to wear it for years and years.