It didn’t occur to me until I saw the Easter candy going down the conveyer belt, that the “bunny” had now infiltrated the French story. And if not the story, at least the basket. That was not the case when I arrived many years ago. I still don’t know if I have it exactly right, but the delivery system had to do with bells, and not bunnies. And the candy reflected said bells along with chickens and bears and eggs. I laughed inside at first, how ridiculous, a bell delivering candy, when so obviously it’s a bunny…on it’s hind legs…well, ok… I had to agree that both stories needed a little blind faith, and a whole lot of wonder. And I suppose that’s the key to everything.
Through the years I have inserted my own narrative into the French culture. Decorating eggs at Easter. Bringing turkey, the whole holiday I guess, of Thanksgiving. Pictures and portraits and stories. So many stories of my grandparents. My mother. I guess I just want everyone to love them as much as I do. I want you to love them. Because I think if you love them, you will also think of them, and you will miss them, and I won’t have to carry that alone. Their beautiful lives and loves will be so light, so easily carried on the wings of a bell, or the hop of a bunny. Maybe that’s silly, but don’t we have to be? Isn’t it silly to believe that love can change everything? That it can lift us? Renew us? Give us new life year after year? Help us rise up, yearly, daily, minute by minute?
There is a weight to the world right now that is in dire need of that silly. We all could use a little faith and a whole lot of wonder. No matter how you deliver it today, may your love be light, may your joy travel far. Happy Easter. Joyeuses Pâques!
I was just a handful, a chubby handful of years older than the bunny that I found in the overgrown field next to our green house. I thought it was an ocean, these waves of green. I asked my mom if that was what colored our house. Yes, she said, always willing to fuel my imagination. I didn’t touch it. My grandfather had taught me that. Tell an adult, I heard in my head. I looked up and down the gravel road. Then across. Patsy was there on the stoop. Telephone in hand, stretched and tethered to the kitchen wall and pulled out the screen door. I wasn’t sure if she was an adult, but she rode the late bus, so it seemed ok. I found your bunny, I told her. She shook her head without putting the phone down. I pulled at her jeans. I pointed to the field. She wasn’t feeling my same sense of urgency. This had to be important. And it was all alone. She kept talking. I looked both ways for a traffic that was never there, and crossed back into the grass that reached my waist. Nothing looked the same. It all looked the same. Where was it? I couldn’t find it. Panic rolled from my eyes. I rode the waves.
Why wasn’t it there? It had to be there! I pleaded with my mom to help me find the bunny when she returned home from work. She walked with me for awhile. When it was clear that we weren’t going to find it, l could see it on her face. We never know when angels will come, or how long they are going to stay, she explained. In one swoop she took away my tears and gave me an angel — an angel bunny. It has stayed with me, all these years, through seas of green, over seas of blue, and I am never alone.
I had one of those dreams this morning, the kind so close to the light of day that it stays through breakfast. It was more of a visit really. I was here in France and saw him walking towards me — Bob Jones — a wonderful man, friend and once co-worker of my mother. He was all smiles and arms that reached out. He hugged me and told me everything is ok. She’s ok, he smiled. And I believed him — that’s what you do when angels come.
“Don’t touch them,” I heard him say, while I was touching them. It was my grandfather’s voice in my head. He had said it when I found a fallen bird’s nest on his farm. The little bird beaks seemed to be crying out for me, but he said no, if I touched them, the mother would never come back. But surely it couldn’t be the same for bunnies I thought. Not the same for these beautiful cuddly little bunnies that I found on this day in the field next to our house. Bunnies were meant to be touched. To be held. They were accessible. Not like birds. Why, there was the Easter Bunny, and Bugs Bunny… chocolate bunnies, stuffed bunnies… Yes, I told myself, bunnies were meant to be held. There were three of them. No mother in sight. I placed one from each hand, back with the other. They squirmed and nestled and smiled. See, I told myself, they were just fine. The mother would come back.
I told my brother that afternoon what I had found. How I had picked them up. “Now you have to kill them,” he said.
“What?????? Noooooo! I would never!”
“Well, they are going to die anyway. Starve to death. Because the mother doesn’t like your smell.” And he walked away.
I stood motionless. How could he deliver this news and just leave me standing there. I was a murderer, and apparantly, I smelled.
I thought about getting my bow and arrow. The plastic one my aunt had purchased for me at Target. I could “do the right thing” (according to my brother) and kill them. I went into the garage to find my bow and arrow. I touched the string. Slid my finger along the faux feathers of the arrow. There was no way I could kill them. No way. I sat in the gravel at the end of the driveway, now not even certain that my own mother would return to me from work. Why would she? I was a smelly murderer.
When she finally pulled in, she didn’t even put the car in the garage. She stopped beside me. Opened the car door. I told her everything. She assured me that I was nothing of the sort, that mothers do come back. And as I sat on her lap next to the steering wheel, I could only believe her. She was proof.
The next day I searched for the bunnies. Praying for their mother’s return, as the weeds scratched my legs. I searched for hours, or maybe ten minutes, but there was no sign of any of them. No babies. No mother. My own mother went straight to the happily ever after…. “See, she said, “the mother came back and brought them to a new house and they are all just fine.” I believed her.
Years later, the first grown-up book we were assigned in middle school was “Of mice and men.” Lennie, the rabbits. It was all so sad. I wept for the story. For them. And I wept because I felt it all slipping away. I knew now. How could I go forward with this knowledge of unhappy endings? How did they carry it? I wept for my brother. My grandfather. How long had they carried this knowledge? I wept for my mother, who had to have known, but still lived on as proof — still passed on the possibility of happy endings. They all carried it, as best they could.
John Steinbeck says, “In every bit of honest writing in the world, there is a base theme. Try to understand men (humans), if you understand each other you will be kind to each other.” I would have to choose my own path. Walk in my own truth. I suppose we all have to do that. And with each word that I write, maybe I understand them, and myself, just a little bit more. See the beauty of it all, just a little bit more. This I can carry. I smile, and walk on.
