A Little Rabbit Story

Photo by Gary Bendig on Unsplash

Once upon a time, I had a little rabbit.
I found it on the side of the road one winter night on my walk.
It didn’t move, munching on stiff grass, looking up at me as I approached.
I knelt close to its face and whispered hi.
Its eyes glowed red. Then flashed back again.
I watched a while and continued on.

Close to home I looked back. It was following me.
I knew it was just a rabbit but I walked faster
and even jogged my last blocks, ducking fast around two bends.

At my front lawn I turned and saw it still following, eyes flashing red to black.
I dashed in my front door and locked it,
scolding myself for how silly I was to run from a rabbit.

I decided to call her a she.
I decided it was a gift to see her out in my lawn munching grass.
I looked out my peephole and then out my window.
I saw how cute her hazel ears laid against her back.
Her eyes no longer red.
I decided I made up my fears.
I started to fall for her bushy tail, hunched walk, big back feet.

She caught me staring. I waved.
She returned to her dinner.
She had been on a long winding journey.
She lost three litters to poison.
She smelled something trustworthy on me
and decided to try trusting me for a while.

I needed to trust someone too.
I needed to feel trustworthy.
I needed someone to believe in me.
Every day had felt so alone that year.
I decided she was a good omen, the start of a lucky break.
In the previous year, I lost too many people.
Sometimes tragedy comes in threes.
For me that year it came in 30s. In 300s.
I couldn’t remember what it was like to not feel completely alone in the world.
Everyone leaves or dies.
This rabbit, let her stay.
Let me let her stay.

In the gracious benevolence of the gods,
I besought them with all wild display,
hands to air to ceiling,
mouth to lips and prayer of my heart,
I needed their boon now,
to look out for me and this creature.
Amen.

I decided to go out. Give her a proper greeting.
Out the front door, she looked up at me.
Her red and black eyes flashing again.
She looked more like an it now, not a she.
I kept my heart still. I had to trust it. I needed this.
I breathed and knelt down, my fingers to the earth, a gesture of welcome, coaxing.

She/it bounded slow toward me. Eyes transfixing me.
I heard her/its thoughts. Becoming my thoughts.
I heard instructions to pick her/it up, bring her/it inside.
To care for her/it.
To give her/it a home.
To shelter her/it.
To let her/it into my body.
To let her/it into my brain.
To let her/its spirit out of this rabbit and into my body.
I saw myself feel her/its power, soon to be her/my power.
I had no more willpower.
I soon would have no more me.
Her/its eyes and fur against my skin paralyzed me, broke me.
I picked her/it up, I no longer I.

On my bed we laid ourselves down, my no longer my.
I let her/it hold me, climb me, peeking head inside my mouth.
Between my teeth, through those red eyes,
she/it breathed her/its/my spirit,
consuming/becoming me, l
eaving this rabbit shell,
this body corpse on my/its/her/their bed.
The shell soon to be eaten, discarded,
as this human body would be, once we finished.
Another being taken,
our one-by-one assemblage for our mother planet,
as we consume this earth with our brainwaves.

Once upon a time, we had a little rabbit/little woman/little planet.

Photo by Tolga Ahmetler on Unsplash