Early '70s
Beautiful day. On the dorm
lawn, some guy happy
to watch his hat fly
off his head every time he
leaps for the Frisbee
fears nevertheless
getting bored. "How about if
we all put on hats?"
he calls to the group.
"How about if I go get
my camera, and
you all search your rooms
and come back with whatever
headgear you round up,
and I'll take a shot
of everyone wearing them?"
"I don't have a hat,"
says one girl, knowing
where one hangs in her closet;
she looks bad in hats.
She can't be the sole
unfun person, however,
nor can the others
who in no time find
their hats too, and assemble
beneath the oak tree,
two rows. In the back
stand tall cowboys and rabbis,
one wide-brimmed female
like a lead singer.
It's as if they're all posing
for a new album
and she's the Mary
to the Peters, the Pauls, and
the kneelers like me,
short at best, shorter
at the base of the photo,
floppy bonnet tied
underneath my chin
like Bo Peep, but I warned them—
I look bad in hats.
It's me. I was there.
I recognize David, and
the other David,
there's Sue; I even
have a sense of who's missing.
Elliott, Hattie—
Hattie, my roommate!
With a name like that, she should
be in the picture.
It's almost too good,
too funny to think about.
I must write and thank
the guy who posted
the snapshot on Flickr for
old friends to click on…
Old friends, I'm sorry,
it's lovely to see you, but
can I be honest?
Surely it happened,
but the truth is I can't call
up Hat Day at all—
I've had to invent
the whole memory, half a
century later.
Copyright Mary Jo Salter | Reprinted from Zoom Rooms (Alfred A. Knopf, 2022)
