The arithmetic of mourning đ„ș
It is a strange thing, to hold your grief in your arms.
To watch it swirl into the shape of an old rabbit,
grey-eared and limping. To hand
feed it sweet-smelling food the color of clouded eyes.
Grief doesnât always come after; it comes during, too.Heâs a proud creature, and crust does not suit
his royal coat. Itâs the brushing that helps me count
out my grief before it arrives: One, (one thousand snuggles),
two, (two thousand kisses), three, (three thousand âI love yousâ).You wouldnât think, with how fragile
human hearts are, that we could handle it.
But holding joy and grief at the same time
is precisely the only thing they are designed for.
Today, I snuggled my 12 year-old rabbit Rorschach and fed him mint âmushâ for dinner. He is happy, and beautiful after a good grooming. If, by the time I read this note, he is no longer snuggled into the crook of my elbow, Iâll take this note as a reminder that I did not take him for granted.