I’ve never worn this hat, but a boyfriend gave it to me three years ago around Christmas. It still smells like his shampoo. He was leaving my apartment at 4 a.m. on a Wednesday and he just put it on my head and walked out the door. He was a few weeks away from moving to Dubai for a job, and we were doing that thing where literally every interaction was some kind of goodbye — we never said goodbye, but we must have said it a hundred times. Hence, the hat. A hat-shaped goodbye.
We haven’t seen each other in a few years, and I’ll be moving out of this apartment next spring. I still don’t know what to do with it. I guess I could try to wear it in December, though who knows what I might do if I try to live my life whilst wearing knit nostalgia. I miss him, though. He listened — didn’t try to solve anything, just listened — and was kind of magically intuitive; he taught me how to cut a giant squash when we cooked soup once, and he was good at silence. I guess what I’m trying to say is: hats.