The Rabbit Beneath the Willow

I found him on a Tuesday,

beneath the willow,

huddled like a question

the world forgot to answer.



His ears twitched

at the sound of my footsteps,

but he did not run.

Not every wild heart

longs to escape.

He was small—

the kind of small

you carry carefully

like spilled milk in cupped palms.

Fur like fallen snow,

eyes like glass marbles dipped in dusk,

and a twitchy nose

that moved like it was

smelling for memories.

I named him quietly,

in my heart,

because naming out loud

makes parting real.

For days,

I brought him apple peels,

bits of carrot,

crisp lettuce from the fridge.

I’d sit by the willow,

watching his whiskers work,

each bite a rhythm

in a world without rush.

He never came close enough to touch—

not really.

But close enough

that I could feel

the trust between us grow

like grass after rain.

Children don’t often find

soft things

that stay.

And maybe he knew

I needed something

that wouldn’t break.

Once, I cried

beside him.

He didn’t flinch.

He just blinked slowly,

like grief was familiar,

and the wind tucked my tears

under the roots.

He became my secret.

A hush I carried

in the hollow of my ribs.

I’d tell no one—

not even my mother,

who always said

wild things weren’t meant for cages

or stories.

One morning,

he didn’t come.

The apple I left

browned in the sun.

The breeze didn’t carry

the soft rustle of his breath.

The willow felt emptier

than usual.

I waited a week.

Then another.

Hope stretched thin

like cobwebs

on forgotten doorways.

Was he gone?

Had he tired

of being the echo

to my silence?

There were days

I swore I heard him—

a soft rustle in the grass,

like memory

gathering its courage.

I left little things—

wildflowers in a jar,

my old storybook

he once saw me read under the tree.

I wanted him to know:

he hadn’t been imagined.

People outgrow toys,

not tenderness.

And though no one saw him but me,

he was more real

than most of the voices

I grew up listening to.

Sometimes I wonder—

was he ever really there?

Or did my soul conjure something

to hold onto

when everything else

felt ready to let go?

But even if he was only a dream,

he was the kind

that leaves footprints

in more than just soil—

he left them

in the small child

I still carry inside me.



Months passed.

Seasons turned like worn pages.

The willow lost its leaves,

and I grew

into someone taller,

quieter,

harder to bend.

But every time I saw

a pale rabbit in a field,

my chest paused.

Just in case.

Years later—

I returned.

The willow still stood,

older, gnarled,

like it had heard too many stories

and told none of them.

There was no sign

of tiny prints

or warm nests

or soft shadows.

Just roots,

like hands clasped in prayer,

and silence

that hummed like an old lullaby.

I placed a carrot

at the base

and whispered the name

I’d never said aloud.

It didn’t echo.

It didn’t need to.

Because some love

doesn't vanish—

it burrows.

Deep into the earth

and deeper into us.

He was never mine,

but I belonged to him

in every silent, still-breathing moment.

Some friendships don’t need words.

Just a willow.

And a rabbit.

And the grace

not to hold on too tight.



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