Three Bean Leaves
My oatmeal beeped 3 times from the microwave when I looked out the window and saw Ruby, my 7 year old Beagle carrying you in her mouth. Frustrated, that I had to put regular clothes on to go outside, since I haven’t been doing that much for 6 months or 7 months? I don’t know. But I dressed for you. I told Ruby to drop you and she did. She’s never seen me angry and certainly not with her. Or you. But I didn’t want her to bring in the smell of death, or something dead, or even the thought of it.
But you were not dead. I had watched you all Spring. My inside feline Toby and I watched you intently many days of this what? Our lost Spring. We laughed at your bunny ears as they peeped from your freedom in the emerald backyard, with the promise of life all around you. Somedays you ran so fast across the yard, that I, in my self-imposed isolation was almost jealous. You were not afraid. You had no reason. Someday’s you were a symphony, joining the birds, and the butterflies and an assortment of woodland creatures, while I watched from the vantage point of a caged zoo animal. I can say that these walls of days have left me with an intimate understanding of a suddenly limited horizon. A narrowed and silent focus. But you. You were always a flash of brilliance across a fading horizon.
Today, your freedom ended too. I’m not sure if it was Ruby, or the blades of the hay machine, or a random car that didn’t see you. Or that did see you and had no empathy for a common wild rabbit. I bent down to check and you moved. And I couldn’t. I saw you. And you saw me. Probably for the first time. And you tried to run. But your body was suddenly old and weak and hurt.
Don’t let anyone tell you can’t talk to another creature with just your eyes. It was an intimate, soul-crushing conversation. I ran around trying to decide what to do. I decided it was best not to touch you. Looking back you may have wished for warm hands. Instead I offered the edge of a garden shovel and gently put you into an empty orange Hefty box and took you to the edge of the woods where you unknowingly had skipped away your youth. And possibly mine.
I thought you might make it. I’m the fixer. And fixers think. What would save a rabbit mangled by a hay machine or a pet beagle that can also be a killing machine under the right conditions? There were new beans in the garden. I ran over and grabbed three newly sprouted bean leaves and placed them by your head. You raised your head slightly and I saw your beautiful brown eyes, and those happy ears and the bean leaves by your head.
I went into the house and cried. For a wild rabbit. Who didn’t deserve to die today. For my dad and realizing that today is the anniversary of his death 8 years ago. For my son, who has forgotten. Everything.
For all of us and our lives, and our families and our communities that can no longer feel and for those that don’t want to feel. And for those that can’t stop feeling so much that they build a wall around their hearts and dare anyone to breach it.
Apparently bean leaves are symbolic and magical. Signifying new life. New sprouts. I didn’t know that in my rush to fix. My fix didn’t work. It didn’t work 8 years ago. Or a year and a half ago. But I will always remember you. And this day. And our eternal connection. And how heavy three bean leaves can be.
