Birds are chirping, fawns are stumbling, and the rain is always falling. It is spring, and with nothing else to do with the bad weather, I begin some spring cleaning.
The closet between the bathroom and bedroom is what I hit first. It hasn’t been cleaned out since I moved and now, I can barely open the door without something falling on my head.
Luckily, when a pull the doors open, I’m not hit by the heavy slap of a box or an ironing board I’ve never used. Instead, I’m hit with a hat.
The hat is a light brown with flowers stitched on the sides. There is a slight tear where a puffy ball sits on the top and it brings a smile to my face along with a fond memory.
I was ten when my grandma gave me the hat. A surprise snowstorm hit and she bundled me up in one of her old coats and that little brown hat.
We ran outside, dancing with the flakes. One of the barn cats, a fat tabby with six toes, zeroed in on the puff ball bobbing on my head. She crept up on us, butt wiggling as she prepared for an attack.
With a mighty pounce, the cat knocked off my hat and ran away with my hat clamped in her mouth.
Grandma and I chased after the cat, laughing and hollering until we completely muffled the roaring wind of the late snow storm.
In the present, I hug the hat close to my chest, glad for the memory.