My dad always wore a hat.  Always.  Winter or summer, rain or shine, when he went out he had a hat on his head.  Every single time.

SInce he died last year, mum has steadily given away his things, either to us kids or to charity shops.  There are, however, a few things that she's hung onto; that she simply wasn't ready to get rid of just yet.

One day last week she and I were chatting about things in general, and she mentioned that she was going to have to get rid of dad's principle hat - and by that I mean the one he wore most often - because she just couldn't bear to see it every time she opened the hallway coat closet.

I said that I wanted it.  I didn't want it to go to some charity shop and be worn by some other man, that I wanted it and that I'd either wear it or I'd hang it on the wall in my home, next to the shadow box of his things that I made when she visited this past spring.

She said she'd mail it to me.  And, she did.  It arrived today.

I started crying when I saw the package in the mailbox.  I cried all the way home....I was walking up the street, the mail clutched to my chest, bawling.  I didn't want to open the parcel at first, I was afraid of how I'd react when I actually saw his hat.  I walked around the house, still crying, still with the package clutched to my chest.  After I'd managed to persuade myself to have some courage, I ripped open the top of the envelope and looked inside....

....and there it was.  Dad's tweed hat, with the badge on the side that he was awarded in 1966 for catching the biggest fish in an angling tournament.  As I pulled it out, I realised that I could smell him on it.  I can STILL smell him on it, and I wish that I could tell you how comforting that is.  It's as if my dad is here, right here with me.  It's fantastic.

I'm sitting here on the couch, laptop on my lap (imagine that!), cup of tea in hand, sporting my dad's hat.  I'm still crying, but I'm also relishing feeling so close to him.

From his head to mine.  That's awesome.