Van Gogh’s bunny. 

We’re in Bemus Point for the weekend, for Baby Felicity’s baptism, staying in the house on the lake where we’ve come for the past three years. There’s this print hanging in our room:


Rooby, looking at it, says, Aw, it’s a bunny! I say, A bunny? and she says, Yes, right there in the sunflowers, see it?

And then I do see it. 

(Not until I write this down do I remember that we collect rabbits to remember my dad, a rabbit himself in the Chinese zodiac–there’s one on his gravestone in the cemetery up the road from here–and now this one has greeted us on our return to his home.)

2 thoughts on “Van Gogh’s bunny. 

  1. This is lovely; I do see the bunny. It reminds me of a story my parents have about me. On our walks through our old neighborhood in Louisville, I repeatedly pointed out the shape of a lion, which eluded them until getting down to my perspective to find it hidden in the random cracks of a particular sidewalk segment.

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