Bunny

Memory works in funny ways. Sometimes, it sends messengers to remind me to pay attention. This December, memory sent me bunnies.

Bunnies are everywhere for me lately. A Christmas card set I bought featuring woodland creatures has a bunny included in the five designs in the box. Some stamps I purchased, for international cards, feature a stylized bunny. In a nice blue sweater, with a red-fringed scarf. Very stylish, this bunny is.

Twice in real life I’ve almost run one down – once on my street, and once at my dad’s. They scampered in front of the car and I hit the brakes, wincing as I anticipated the thud and crunch that never, thankfully, came.

You see, my mom’s nickname was Bunny. Friends and family alike called her thus. She’s been gone a decade and three months now, and while she’s not on my mind every day anymore, not a week goes by that I don’t think of her, pull something out of the cupboard that she gifted me, or remember something we did together. I’m grateful for these memories, warmed by them. They give me roots that I never knew I needed.

I moved to Ottawa upon my divorce, leaving behind my dream job in Toronto in favour of the support that only my parents could offer me. My kids were small at the time, just starting their schooling, and I needed help with before and after school care, and all the other kinds of loving support that only grandparents with big hearts and time on their hands could offer. Moving here softened a really rough time in my life, providing a gentler landing following the raw rift that had befallen us. In Ottawa, around my folks, the kids and I thrived in ways I could not have dreamed.

Fast forward 15 years…

Mom’s death surprised us all, including my dad. Her lungs, inelastic due to exposure to asbestos decades earlier, had atrophied to the point that breathing was hard. Her depression also weighted her down, and to her bed she took before suffering a heart attack.

Gone. Just as I was softening toward wisdom and adopting the pace of midlife.

Gone. Just as her grandsons, my sons, launched into university.

Gone. Just as I blossomed into a deeply loving second marriage.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

We buried her in the National Military Cemetery at Beechwood Cemetery in Ottawa, testament to her own military service. Dad’s name is on the tombstone too, awaiting his turn to join her there. I used to visit five times a year – birthday, death day, wedding anniversary, Christmas and Remembrance Day – often with Dad. It’s a beautiful place this cemetery. Peaceful. It’s tended by professional gardeners; perennial flowers grow at and between each grave marker. The grass is nicely trimmed. Flags snap in the wind, and there are always a few other people about, visiting their person, looking for other people they knew in another life.

Canada's National Military Cemetery at Beechwood Cemetery in Ottawa, Canada

But with time, my visits have dropped off. We’ve missed Remembrance Day a few years running – whimping-out as Novembers seem colder, and the snow flies earlier than in years past. I guess this is the way of grief. It’s so sharp and painful in the beginning, fading into memory with time.

Memoires have their way of poking us into awareness again. And so, the bunnies appeared… reminding me of her, and all she meant to me. And just how much I miss her as I near my 60s. How much I’d love to talk with her again, to see her clear blue eyes looking my way, hanging on my every word like only my mom could do for me.

Memory works in funny ways. And sometimes, there are bunnies.