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Purple Bandanna

By Lissa Kiernan

You know that dusty, white film on grapes that diffuses their almost unbearably sensuous, hypnotically deep purple? In nature's perfect wisdom, the grape plant produces the substance to protect its berries from losing their juice. The resulting hue— desaturated concord grape— was the color of my father's favorite bandanna.

It came into my possession still tied into the swathe he had cinched around his head, and a year passed before I pried apart that knot. Printed with white paisley teardrops and charcoal-etched flowers, it had been lovingly worn and washed until nearly threadbare - the beginnings of a frayed hole by the "Crafted with Pride in America" logo.

He mostly wore bandannas to hide a bad hair day, and I think he favored purple because it signaled gay pride. Bandannas are fetishy in gay circles; a certain shade of the color loosely brands the wearer's tribe. I clearly remember his ode to the bandanna as object. He praised the cloth workhorse as much for its value— two for a dollar at Avery's General Store— as for its style.

He used them as napkins, handkerchiefs, dust rags, scarves. He would wrap one around his forehead, when gardening, to keep sweat from his brow, then fashion it into a carry-all for cuttings. And they worked wonders, of course, on a widening bald spot.

The effect of a bandanna on the head of this gentle giant, along with the small, sterling hoop piercing his left ear, was part hippie, part swashbuckler. But when it was the purple bandanna, it was undeniably— and defiantly— gay. Somewhat embarrassingly so, to be honest; I never quite got over the cringe factor of learning at the age of 17 that my father preferred men.

Other colors were relegated to lowlier places— the neck, the wrist— and lowlier tasks— the cleaning and nose-blowing. Occasionally he would mix it up; wiping down a tabletop with the blue one, say, before throwing it in with the laundry and wearing it the same day. But the purple bandanna was reserved solely for his head, never subjected to any task less dignified than accessorizing.

In his photography studio, bandannas held the hair out of his eyes; at openings, he imagined they lent him street cred. He might have worn them in the hospital had he lost his hair to chemo, but perhaps he would have deemed that too cliché. As it turned out, he did not lose his hair to the treatments, but died soon thereafter from hospital-acquired pneumonia, his immune system beaten to a whimper.

For a while, I kept the bandanna in the bathroom and used it as a makeshift shower cap. It wasn't so much effective as comforting, during the frequent showers I took then to cry privately. At some point, probably post-shower and before a fitful nap, it found its way to my nightstand. It has lived there ever since. This ensures that after four years, with the sharpest grief finally behind me, I still think of my father at least once a day.

Before going to sleep, I drape it over my alarm clock's face to snuff out the cool glare of the digital display. Another use found for this versatile square of cloth. But every so often, the light finds that frayed hole, and bleeds through it, filmcoating my dreams.