Tiara’s Hat Parade

Some people say I have a knack for storytelling. Well, my momma has a gift for making hats. Ladies came from all over to get a Tracy Rose Millinery creation. I was her helper, the best hat model around.

“Hold your head high, Tiara,” Momma would say as she slid her Sunny-Day Special on my head. Tangerine with gold feathers fanning out, I felt like a bird showing off its colors. “Now strut. That’s right, baby. Show them how it’s done.”

I would sashay around her studio, and the ladies would clap and shout, “Go on, girl.” Their laughter jingled like silver charms.

But when that new store opened with hats that cost way less than Mommas, the stream of ladies slowed to a drip. I waited in the living room window with a smile ready to dazzle. Day after day, nobody came at all.

“We can’t eat dreams,” Momma said one afternoon, sighing. “That store can afford to sell hats cheaper than I can.”

Daddy and I helped Momma pack away her fabric, feathers, beads, sequins, ribbons, and buttons. Then came the hardest part—tucking her hats into boxes. Daddy hugged Momma.

“I can work extra hours,” he said. “Don’t worry. We’ll be okay.”

That day, Momma closed her studio for good. Now, no one goes into that room. It just sits at the back of our house quiet and lonely.

When my school had a job opening, Momma went back to what she did before-teaching art.

“Can we make a new hat after school?” I asked one morning. “You have homework,” she said. “I have work to do too.”

“But you’re always too busy.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” she said, her voice sharp as a hatpin. Then it was hushed as a feather. “Something happy.”

Every day as I walked through the house, I passed her studio. One Saturday when she was out and Daddy wasn’t looking, I gently opened the door. It groaned softly like someone slowly waking from a nap. And I was in.

I saw Momma’s hatstands, silent as soldiers standing guard. I reached for a hatbox and trembled as I raised the lid. Inside was Momma’s Purple Pride. I slid it on and felt a smile rise up in my heart.

I jumped when I lifted the brim and saw her staring from the doorway.

“This was something special,” she whispered. “Can it be again?” I asked.
“Not now, sweetie,” Momma said. “Just put that hat away and come on out. I told you stay out of here.”

I held back tears but did as Momma said, tucking the Purple Pride back into its bed. She put her arm around my shoulder. Then she locked the door behind us.

But the next day at recess, I thought about Momma’s hats. I pictured them as we drove home. At dinnertime, I slipped in a silent prayer after grace.

“Amen. And please help Momma make hats again.”