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My dad had an assortment of cowboy hats. Some hailing from his hometown in mexico. others, from rodeos or mexican shops. My father used to ride the bulls back in mexico. He took pride in those hats because each had a certain meaning to them. His prized hat was a black cowboy hat. On one side there were three silver clips in the shape of different forms with beautiful detail in them. One, was of a rooster. The second, a star. The other that was my favorite was of a running horse. Smoke kicking around its feet while the hair on its head whipped back. The other side of this hat held three small light feathers. A red one, and a green one at it's side. I would sometimes climb into my parent's closet and remove the black hat from the shelf. Placing it on my own head and wearing it around the house. My dad would always tell me that the hat will someday be mine while he sat on the edge of his bed brushing it gently with a special brush as I watched from the floor. I often wondered what happened to that hat after we moved. Constantly it popped in and out of my head. A few days ago I asked my mom if she knew the whereabouts of the black hat. Maybe we had it in a box somewhere. Or perhaps one of my relatives from his side of the family had it placed away somewhere. My heart near sank when she told me she chopped it up a long time ago after being angry with my father for something. Maybe someday, I'll find a hat similar and fashion it to the exact liking of my dad's own.