Girl and Rabbit
1. Dulwich Hill, a painful scene involving the elderly neighbours, the boxer dog, a big stick, a lot of tears, and calling on the Virgin Mary’s intercession (my neighbour, not me).
2. Turramurra, no tears this time, but some annoyance at my uncle’s matter of fact advice, and some guilt at just how happy the rabbit looked streaking through the dandelions. I think I may have thought about St Jude (the rabbit is turning me Catholic). A careful stakeout results in him being trapped in the laundry, I hoot triumphantly and return him to his prison.
3. Turramurra, the following day, I realise he has worked out how to get out of his hutch! I am alone this time, and relish the lack of "Well we can’t chase after a rabbit all day", and I chase him onto the back verandah and return him to the hutch, which I weigh down with a brick and a can of paint.
I miss my old garden. I can be awfully nostalgic, my breath catches in my throat when I think of simple things: how the dahlias were beginning to bloom when we left, how we never got to eat the cabbages we planted, how I even miss the sound of the neighbour’s yelling at each other.
At my new place, there is no violence to either side. On one side there is renovating and baby-expecting, and on the other is a lot of loads of washing, a giant plastic Santa head stuck to the front window, and the blinds never drawn. The most violence comes either when I’m upset about how I managed to end up back here, or when mother comes over to do the vacuuming. She works at it like a demon!
At night, it is generally just me and the rabbit. He throws his food dish around and wakes me up, and the sound works back into my dreams and he appears, six foot tall, at the front door, or he suddenly is able to talk, he says "Sorry" in my voice. When I can’t sleep I go out and pick him up, cradle him like a baby and talk about what, exactly, I am doing with my life. He looks nonplussed.