There, just inside the doorway the sentinel stood, silently upholding whatever was flung at it.
A hat rack soiled and dusty – except for it’s brush with headgear.
The support at it’s base stained from years of battering, it’s floor sprouting sporting paraphernalia and mingled aromas. A slovenly sight representing years of commitment to pleasure above all else
. All the hat and caps held a story.
The dusty Akubra had crowned a Rodeo Queen, whom still loved horses and boots. The baseball cap smelt of a tomboy – competitive still; whilst the fashionable swim cap and goggles figured in a twelve year old’s life, when boy’s were the rage.
Dad’s sweat decayed Panama always on gardening duty, as ubiquitous as dad amongst his vegetables was in literal juxtaposition to the handsome Pith helmet his son wore in Polo matches. And just as white, the cricket hat hung in testimony to a younger lad’s devotion to cricket. But the most ironic of all, just had to be the hat used for fishing – complete with stylised fly. As comfortable a charm as the sea-dog herself – Mum.