The Bunnies Playing in the Yard

My wife has a tender side, and it endears her to me.

When she was eleven she had two bunnies, Daisy and Calico. Calico had black and white patches and Daisy was a fat bunny with pure white fur. One of her favorite memories of childhood was a Spring day when let all the baby bunnies to hop around the yard. Her Dad built the bunny hutch, and the good strong fence. I can imagine how safe she felt in that yard, with the warm spring sun on her face and a spray of spreckles on her nose. This was before the troubles and struggles of adulthood, before the disappointing first husband and the violent second one. She had a beautiful childhood with two loving and supportive parents. She was cared for. She always had a nice new dress for parties and dances. Her father taught her how to drive. He was an amazing man, gentle and kind. He could play the saxophone or build a house or repair a car.

Part of the anger and disappointment she feels now in life is the shock at how different her life turned out. This is how it's supposed to be. Good men take care of you. Families don't leave each other. There was no yelling in her house growing up. Her family went to church together. Her mother usually overcooked the Sunday roast. They still joke about it. Her father died of prostate cancer in 1994. Her sister died a few years later.

The fence is solid and strong. It's still in good repair, and there's a sturdy storage shed he built in the well-trimmed yard. Her mother hires a man to keep everything up, partly, I suspect, as a tribute to him. In all of his pictures he is smiling, steady. The kind man in the blue flannel shirt reading to his grandbabies. His hands are weathered and strong. She deserves a man like that. On my best days, I try. But I can't build a house or repair a car. And I have already failed her far more times than he ever did.