She thought about it for a long time.
“Bring a rabbit,” she said. “For Mr. Hops. He’s lonely.”
I came back on Saturday with a stuffed rabbit. I came back the Saturday after that. And the one
after that.
Mark and I got married nine months later in the backyard. Hannah was the flower girl. She threw all of her petals at the very first row and then stood in front of me through the whole ceremony,
holding both rabbits.
I packed her lunches.
Every single school day for twelve years. Peanut butter and honey, never jelly. Apple slices with a
little lemon juice so they wouldn’t turn brown, because she wouldn’t eat brown apples. And a note. Every day. Written on a napkin or an index card, folded in half and tucked under the sandwich.
“Good luck on your spelling test.”
“You are braver than you think.”
