Despite myriad work sites flung as a deck of cards cut, shuffled, and strewn a half-globe away, he phones nightly, his speech gentle, his discourse jaunty yet measured as the ticking of a clock. Most times
they discuss the rabbit. It runs, it sits, it eats. It is the web he weaves to support her, his silk strong as steel, she delighted to be caught in its circular threads.
“He must be the luckiest bunny alive,” says my mother, smiling herself to sleep.