“Meditations on a Too-Small Hat”

by N. Jed Todd

Found my old patrol cap in a drawer. Dusty but not forgotten, still stained with green circles From the brass that held my rank in place. Sweat stains from Afghanistan, Maybe even Iraq It was too small for me, wouldn't fit. Tight as a raging hangover On a Wednesday morning. The say men’s heads swell with the years, That they get wider over time. Maybe that's it. Maybe. Maybe I've gotten bigger, expanded. How could I not, with layers Of dust and trauma and memories to forget, Swollen with dead flesh? But maybe I was small then Puckered up every time I left the wire. Circumscribed with doubt and fear That I'd never measure up If I was ever in the shit. Turns out that shit’ll coat you Crunk and stink that don't wash off Some stains that once are on you Become a part of who you are and were Limit what you'll become. Or maybe that's what I thought then, But maybe it ain't true forever. Could be with time and scrubbing Crunk comes off in giant flaking muddy scabs Just leaving stains behind. Could be those stains are like tattoos, That tell you where I've been and why and how And who was there along with me. Could be years of healing and remembering Have been what swole my skull. That kid who wore that cover, Rucked at Bragg and in the sand, Could be, maybe, he'd recognize. Could be he's still there, somehow, within, Proud that it won't fit.

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N. Jed Todd is a Texas refugee, TAMSter, retired US Army Psychological Operations Master Sergeant, and a Russian linguist. Also until recently a civil servant, working for the Air Force on tech modernization and information warfare. But since the greatest information weapon is hope, he’s turned to poetry and fiction for solace (published in As You Were: The Military Review and in several Middle West Press poetry collections), and to his family, his daughter Meera and wife Ami.

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