rabbits in the path
to come back to myself, i skip around our roof in angeles, head spinning ‘round the numbers on the tarps we hung up for a free pizza every month. close my eyes and imagine you weaving dishcloths first thing in the morning, fiddling with the gas stove in the back room; the tip of a pen on your lip as you look over my attempt at beginner sudoku.
did you know i lost the sock bunny you helped me sew in eighth grade? either ms. custodio from home economics kept it to exhibit (who could best your magic with a needle and thread?), or you pried it out of my then careless grip to mend, or— well. i’ve always forgone digging crescents into skin in favor of telling myself stories. you know the kind.
the young stalks of san simon bend and snap beneath powerful wooly legs. at night, the moon projects a luminescent bridge out into eternity as the hare retreats skyward, sure-footed. i see it best alone, in the pin-drop silence. light breaks through the clouds and foliage as it runs figure-eights past my ankles and leaves only cotton ball stardust behind, fractal blue and warm to the touch. like a shadow, it dashes in and out of reach faster than i can call out a name.
i can’t chart a course for wild animals, but i can trace patterns on a white converse canvas. i can cut against the grain. the bump of a stitch is a footprint in the sand. a garden is a love letter. a recipe can be forgotten, but not so the taste of a little sugar sprinkled in. i can only hope to discern all the burrows dug open for me to unearth. a hop, a skip, a single word a time: i find i’m never close enough but never far behind.
(so, why chase a rabbit knowing you’ll never catch up to it? —to remind yourself it’s there. not an illusion. real as the old potholders, the scorch marks on the frying pan, the puzzle books with notes in the margins. to come back to yourself, as you are because you have been.)
019: for grandma again — anything i wanted to be given you taught me i could make instead.