Like Rabbits

(an Ali Smith imitatio)

‘The years shall run like rabbits,

For in my arms I hold

The Flower of the Ages,

And the first love of the world.’

That’s you, I said.

You looked at me curiously.

The first love of the world, I said. Of my world.

But you have many loves, you said.

You didn’t sound derisive when you said this—just sad and sweet, as you always did.

You’re quite loving too, I said.

I only loved twice, you replied.

I closed the poetry book in front of me. I was sitting at my shabby maple wood desk, and you were just a few feet away, on the messy sheets of my bed. Your hair cascaded down like an ash-blonde waterfall, though it was more ash than blonde that day, and your eyes sparkled with light from the open window. I glanced at you, then out the window. I could see your house—it was right across the street. The exterior was a dreary off-white, as it always had been, and the inside was dark.

No one’s home, I said, looking back towards you.

You said nothing.

Just then, I noticed a small vase of flowers at the edge of my desk. Tiny buds, fresh and brimming with life. I hadn’t noticed them before.

You got me these? I asked.

You said nothing. In silence, I examined your features—delicate, ready to wilt under the faintest breeze. Then again, maybe the breeze isn’t so faint.

Do you remember the rabbits? You asked, breaking the silence.

The ones at the cemetery, I said. We couldn’t have been more than eight or nine. What were we doing there, anyway?

I already knew the answer. We were there because it was beautiful. It was a garden cemetery—one of the oldest—and it was nothing more than a park to our tiny minds. We played blissfully amongst the tombstones, stopping only to watch the rabbits.

Three, I said aloud. We always saw a family of three rabbits.

Two rabbits, you said.

I was certain it was three, but I didn’t want to argue. I had a feeling that I had already hurt you enough, though I couldn’t seem to recall what I had done.

Remember the rabbits? You asked.

I thought you were repeating yourself, but then I realized that I had misheard. What you had really said was: dismembered the rabbits.

Who dismembered the rabbits? I asked.

Time, you said.

Why? I asked.

Because they were innocent, you said. Innocence is always the first victim of time.

I couldn’t believe that. You still seemed so innocent, sitting there in your linen dress the color of cream.

White represents death, you said, as if reading my mind.

That can’t be right, I said.

Emily Dickinson believed it was, you said. That’s why she wore white dresses.

It occurred to me then that your dress wasn’t the color of cream, after all—it was alabaster.

So time robbed us of our innocence, I conceded. But when? When did that happen?

This is yet another question I already know the answer to. It’s the years of budding adolescence. We’re happy—most of the time, at least—and we spend our afternoons reading together under the warmth of the golden sun. But then a boy with dark, cunning eyes enters my life. Well, your life, at first. Then my life. Is that what I did to hurt you?

Just then, the doorbell rang. You followed me downstairs, pale as a ghost, watching as I let him in. He was my love, now—one of many, as you’d correctly observed. Together, the three of us headed back up to my room.

Two, you said, beginning to fade away.

But all the clocks in the city
  Began to whirr and chime:
‘O let not Time deceive you,
  You cannot conquer Time.

The flowers are still fresh, he said, looking at the vase on my desk with satisfaction. This made me feel strange for two reasons. First, because it was simply not true: the buds were dry and dull, though they had been brimming with life just minutes before. And second, because it reminded me that he had gotten me those flowers, and not you. I really did think they had been from you. But that was just the deception of time. In reality, those flowers—and you, for that matter—had been dead for a long time. The light streaming through my window was real, though. The sun was real, too. And it was the same sun that had shone over us back when you were real.

Time robs us of the sun, too—but only temporarily. As the sun began to disappear for the night, I found myself walking by his side. We were far from my house by that point, and the air was chilly.

You can have my coat, he said, stopping.

I felt him placing his dark blue parka over my shoulders. I pulled my arms through the sleeves and found that it was very warm. We resumed walking, and the cemetery came into view.

Why are we going there? I asked.

Because it’s beautiful, he replied.

It is beautiful, I thought to myself as we entered the gates.

We should go this way, I said, leading him down a path lined with dahlias.

Why? He asked as we reached a clearing of grass, containing only a park bench and a few graves.

No reason, I said as we sat down on the bench. But I knew I was lying. I knew the stone closest to us was yours.

He put his arm around my shoulder, looking at me with his dark, cunning eyes. I realized that I was very uncomfortable, not just because of your presence, but also because I was sitting on top of something. Something in the back pocket of the parka. I shifted around, reaching into the pocket.

Are you okay? He asked.

I ignored him, still feeling around for the irksome object. I found, to my surprise, that it was a very small, crumpled sheet of paper.

What’s this? I asked him.

I don’t know, he said, without the slightest hint of curiosity.

I smoothed it out on my lap, then brought it closer to my face for examination. Something was written on it. The night was dark and the writing was small, but I made out what it said: I love you. I knew you had written it. At the very bottom, the message was addressed to him. Is that why you’re gone? I wondered. This was a question I didn’t know the answer to, and probably never would.

Forget about her, he said, pulling me in for a kiss.

I didn’t resist—I loved him, after all. But as our figures grew closer and closer in the dark of night, I began to think of the rabbits. They really were dismembered now.

Poem from: As I Walked Out One Evening by W. H. Auden