No Longer Mine

I could feel the coolness of my fingertips as I curled them into my palm on my walk home from Walgreens' drugstore.

I've buttoned my down coat to the top of my neck.

I can feel that my exposed head is in need of a covering.

I reach into my pockets for my hat and gloves. They aren't there.

I stop mid-stride and search the contents of my backpack. Not there either.

I dial the number for the Mass Transit District.

"M-T-D."

"Maybe you can help me? I think I left my hat on the bus."

"Which bus?"

"Ten Gold West. I just got off it 10 minutes ago."

"Where were you when you left the bus?"

"Kirby and Neil."

"Describe the hat."

"Dark blue knit. A man's style."

The hat was my Grandfather's. I asked for it after he died. It was just a plain old soft hat. Nothing fancy or special looking. I loved it. For awhile after his death I could smell the oil of his hair in it. Sometimes I would cover my nose with the hat and inhale deeply. The hat was long enough so that I could roll it up over itself creating a double layer of cloth against my ears.

I'd lost it once before and was unsettled until it turned up. I had dropped it between the washer and dryer years ago and found it quite by accident in the space between the two machines. What a relief.

I remember being distracted tonight on the bus by two toddlers. A Caucasian father had gotten on the bus several stops after mine and sat in front of me by several rows on the other side of the bus. He was pushing a stroller with his little girl in it. He positioned the stroller next to him. The little girl faced me. I couldn't take my eyes off her.

A stop or two after we picked her up, an Asian father got on the bus holding his toddler daughter. He sat in the row directly behind the first father-daughter pairing in a seat perpendicular to the other father's seat. The two girls now faced each other. One in a stroller and one in her own bus seat. I couldn't see the Asian girl's face, but the Caucasian girl's face lit up with joy. She raised her arm, turned towards her father who looked down at her and smiled. The two fathers made eye contact and smiled but did converse with each other. The stroller bound girl played peek-a-boo with her hands.

I watched them until my stop at the Walgreens.

I must have left my Grandfather's hat (and a pair of gloves) on my seat.

I started to obsess about the lost hat. After supper, I drove to the Walgreens, parked my car and retraced my steps outside. No hat. I went inside the store and asked to look at the lost-and-found. Nothing there for me.

I called the MTD back.

Satisfied that I had done my part in trying to find Grandfather's hat, it was time to let go.

Blogging is one way. I want to feel the loss so I can let it go.

My teacher, Byron Katie, when talking about loss asks, "How do you know it's yours?" Answer: You have it. "How do you know it's not yours?" Answer: You don't have it.

So, as of this writing, Grandfather's hat is no longer mine. I'm a little sad about it. Either I'll get a call back from the MTD saying that they have found my hat, or someone else who needs it now has it.

Either way, I am sure that Grandpa is smiling down at me loving me now as always.


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2/13/09

The hat is mine again!

This morning after my workout, I called the customer service center at the bus terminal and asked about my hat. The staff person who answered looked and found three blue hats in the lost-and-found box that had been turned in the night before. I said I would be right there. When I approached the counter she offered me both my hat and gloves back. What a delight. I am grateful.