One by one, my bunnies died — Phoebe’s bunnies really. Pretty sad. But I got some pleasure from nursing them with a tiny baby bottle, cradling them in my hands, and watching them scoot and scamper around.
There were two runts — one died first and the other died last of all. I lost one a day starting with Monday. On Thursday we were down to 3 little bunnies and two of them seemed so healthy…gaining weight and all…I was very hopeful. Optimistic about them, on death watch for the little guy.
One of the bigger ones died yesterday afternoon. The other remained energetic and curious and very cute, hopping all around, licking at the water bottle in the box. But…when we came home from church and visiting with friends last night his still warm body was limp, unresponsive. I had myself prepared to come home to the pipsqueak expired, but not his bigger brother. I was so sad — beyond disappointed.
Before bed I fed and tended the littlest one, the only one left, knowing he’d be gone by morning. And he was. Oh woe is me. All that to say there will be no Easter bunnies at our house tomorrow morning, but I’ll think of them and imagine them in bunny heaven while we celebrate The Resurrection!
I believe in that better place. And Easter is why I believe.