We once pushed
sheets of wet lettuce into the rabbit's cage in the back yard on Williams
Street. Then one morning he wasn't there to pull it through the mesh with his
cautious mouth. It's no bigger mystery than anything else. When you're two
everything flies out from you like light, the way shouts go some other place not
here, not ever close again.
"That's
what rabbits do sometimes," Mother says. "One day they're just gone.
We remember the cage door hanging open, the unbroken wire mesh walls, the small
turds on the tray beneath the cage. We used to watch them fall out of the
rabbit. We walk back into the kitchen. The screen door bangs twice. We look
around to see what there is to hold on to, what belongs in us, and it begins to
store up like souvenirs. We'll sort through it later to see what's ours, even
after we learn what the rabbit learned, that not even life itself really belongs
to us.
Sooner or
later it happens, a day we've carried around with us like a new penny. This is
the day the rabbit comes back, and everything belongs: the mother made of paper
stored in our paper hearts, the stone that falls from the blind man's hand, the
echo of the meal next door. The halo around the moon belongs. The fear that
rides the great curve back to us belongs. The wood of our umbrella handle, the
split tooth, the lost dog all belong. We've kept them all to step on in the dark
in the middle of the night. We've just awakened from a terrible dream in which
the worst turned out to be true: everyone we loved was gone; the money wasn't
ours after all; the neighborhood bully, his face pressed against the screen
door, was peering in at us. We are lying awake in bed, our bones too heavy to
move, the dream of the paper mother twisting this way and that to escape,
stretching its arms outward like a baby.