Holding Bunnies

Lisa Brancaccio
Undergraduate/ Print Journalism

his sparkling eyes glimmered with charm
as he softly ran the back of his hand
across my cheek
and told stories of comedy and romance
involving our nieces and nephews
who gallivanted between the legs of guests
at the reception.
i laughed until i cried.

our first home rested
on the corner of apple and main.
its pale pink shutters stood out
from the browns and blues
of our elderly neighbors.

tim spent an entire summer
painting the hand-me-down wooden playground.
he polished it until every sliver and crack
disappeared
and its smooth surface shone in the sun.

tim and i read to bella every
morning
afternoon
and night.
she could spell better than a fourth grader
when she was seven.

tim spent an entire afternoon
teaching bella how to fly a kite.
together we taught her
how to hold a baby rabbit
gently in her little hands
and how to double knot
her softball cleats.

when jeremy came along
bella sang him lullabies in his crib.
he gazed up at her,
his eyes curious and brown,
and smiled an empty grin.

our first car rested
on the corner of apple and main
in between a light post and a crushed bmw.
i ran across the freshly cut grass,
my robe falling off my shoulders,
screams echoing like gun shots
into my neighbors’ open windows.

they wouldn’t let me see jeremy.
his tiny nine pound body
never stood a chance.

bella’s arm hung lifelessly off the stretcher
her fingers curled into a fist.
she fought for her life.

tim’s eyes still sparkled,
glazed over and still.
i ran the back of my hand
across his cheek.
i cried until i sobbed.