The only hat worth wearing was the one you made for yourself
She snatched off the hat with stars on it. It wasn’t a bad hat, for show, although the stars made is look like a toy. But it was never her hat. It couldn’t be. The only hat worth wearing was the one you made for yourself, not one you bought, not one you were given. Your hat, for your own head. Your own future, not someone else’s.
She hurled the starry hat up as high as she could. The wind there caught it neatly. It tumbled for a moment and then was lifted by a gust and, swooping and spinning, sailed away across the downs and vanished forever.
Then Tiffany made a hat out of the sky and sat it on the old potbellied stove, listening to the wind around the horizons while the sun went down.
As the shadows lengthened, many small shapes crept out of the nearby mound and joined her in the sacred place, to watch.
The sun set, which is everyday magic, and warm night came.
The hat filled up with stars…