scribblechic

A beige, floppy eared, terry cloth bunny arrived shortly after my son’s birth wrapped in ribbon and celebratory well wishes from a family friend. I do not remember when my son first reached for the gift and I cannot recall a day without the treasured companion. My son’s shadow slumbers each evening in the folds of his bed covers beneath long limbs scattered in sleep.

The bunny is worn, the nose rubbed flat with toddler kisses. Tiny black eyes peer unblinking,  a witness to our everyday lives. I wonder how many confidences his long, clumsy ears have been entrusted with and how many tears are tucked inside his stuffing. I can only imagine the stories the  carefully stitched lips could share.

Often I find the limp limbs have traveled into my daughter’s room; she hides the tiny form, mischievously pleased by her big brother’s anxious endeavor to find the borrowed friend. In a world filled with change simple constants reassure him.

The bunny’s name has evolved into an endearment. The familiar figure represents over a decade of bedtime stories and goodnight kisses; memories gathered for safekeeping in a child’s toy.

Tagged: Childhood, Musings