TRUE STORY: RABBITS

True Story. My kitchen for the longest time was behind that window. I stood back there I don’t know how many hours doing the dishes or just leaned against the old farmhouse sink contemplating the leaded glass, the sorry state of my forearms. Corned beef we had if it was a good week, and a murderous slaw heavy on beets we’d planted where the tannery lands fought it out with the river. The occasional rabbit too, though our traps were so laughable only idiot rabbits fell for them. 

Off to my left an acre damn near of abandoned (until we came along) concrete-floored warehouse. The kids got around on tar-bit roller skates and a first-gen skateboard. Under our feet is just the beginning of how I’d describe those boys, though I’d surely end with a teary declaration of love, the fearless way they put up with the lawless state of the place, and all the darkness.

A pigeon, all tan wings and fat as a pug, sat up in the roof through Aidan’s toddler years, and a couple rats were always sunning themselves down at the storm drain. Kel would come in from Battersea the odd time, a load of wood stacked all akimbo back of his Ford. Some old dock he’d torn apart, he said, or a lean-to boathouse, planks a foot wide and with value in them, probably, only we didn’t know that well enough not to burn them in the stove. Dim as the rabbits we were.

We kept that fire going all winter, had to feed it middle of the worst nights to keep the pipes from freezing and force the damp out of the floor. When spring came, and by way of celebration, I painted the shadow of the tree right onto the outside wall. Made it seem like the sun was always out when we arrived home that way. We had wrecked wicker loungers up on the roof, and a manual Singer sewing machine Jess used to pump out coats and blankets and sacks we’d keep carrots in and just enough potatoes we didn’t need to worry.