One of life's little mysteries

When my mother died several years ago, I had to sort through the things left in her apartment. One of those things was a gaudy baseball-style cap that I had never seen before. It had clearly been hand-decorated for some occasion, but I couldn’t make out the writing on the brim which would have given some clue as to its origin. I started to toss it in a “To Go To Goodwill” bag, but decided nobody would ever buy such an ugly thing so resigned it to the trash.

A few days later, my brother John called and asked if I had found the hat that Mother had made during one of her visits with him to a Ham Fest. (He was an amateur ham radio operator.) Immediately I knew what was on the brim of that hat; the writing was crystal clear once I knew what it said and then I knew what the hat really was. One of those worthless/priceless memories that you cling to when you lose someone you love.

I explained that I had thrown the cap away, but promised I would look for it, “just in case”. I was sure it had been sent to the trash, but I searched the Goodwill bags anyway. I dumped them out on the floor and put everything back one piece at a time, praying I hadn’t thrown it away. I filled up the bags, but still no cap so I dumped them out again, and repeated the process. I didn’t want to deny John such a simple request, but I just couldn’t find it.

Later that week while I was sorting the contents of the bedroom closet, a box fell off the top shelf, hitting me on the head. The lid flew off and the contents scattered across the floor. I was so tired, so disheartened, but I wiped away poor-me-tears and reached down to begin repacking the box. At my feet was a gaudy cap. That gaudy, worth-nothing, means-everything cap for my baby brother.