Finding Father II

A Memory of Rabbits

 

The day my father killed the rabbits was humid. Wet. Uncomfortable.

My parents are ritualistic in their waking. My mother sounds her arrival to the house deliberately, shouting to the animals, making mom-smells in the kitchen. But dad is softer. He paces. Opens doors, then closes them, and opens them again, searching for hypothetical intruders in the garden.

The sound of my parents talking in the early morning makes me feel home.

My father mumbled to my mother, made something clang as he moved, and moved outside. I watched him from my bedroom window, silent in the purple light of dawn. His eyes were tired. I remember turning away, terrified that, for the first time, my protector-dad may be afraid of something.

Mom was smoking in the kitchen. My pyjamas had grown moist in the heat of sleep, and my hair wormed its way across my childchubby cheek. She pursed her lips and clicked her tongue at me, trying to better my appearance. Then she ordered me to carry breakfast cereals through to the table.

We were put to work all morning. My brother, sister and I stole concerned glances to each other, each acknowledging, but misunderstanding the tension in our home.
We wanted to know why all the curtains were drawn. We wanted to play with our rabbits.

Finally, as the last surface had been polished and the sausages put out for eating, my father entered the house. He was carrying a shovel. His brow was sandy, crusted by sweat. He nodded to my mother and left the room.
She said they loved us, but the rabbits were sick. They had to go.