White Rabbits

Amongst the green grass, beyond the white picket fence and overgrown rose bushes, stood white rabbits of all sizes. Some stood on their hind legs, absorbing the last of the sun as it set, bright hues of red, orange and yellow painting the once blue sky. Others lay in the grass, the prickly weeds digging into their sides. They roll around in discomfort, mimicking the motions of a wet dog; flailing their limbs as they lay on their back, moving side to side as their short tails twitch.

The rest ran across the yard, between the legs of the lawn chairs, around the shrubs and near the brick house. The smaller ones found their way between the furniture with ease, whereas the larger ones stood near the legs of the metal table. Some stood atop, peeking through the holes of the table, looking down at the other rabbits lazing around, grazing on the grass. From here you could see the entire yard; to the left were large arrangements of flowers, trimmed with care, and to the right was a small greenhouse, full of homegrown vegetables. In the middle, where the furniture stood, a man sat at one of the chairs, drink in hand. It's contents were a dark colour, the smell causing a few of the rabbits to churn in the grass.

As a breeze blew by, the rabbits' fur tousled, as does smoke from the campfire. The said man chants a soft "I don't like white rabbits", as he peers into the smoldering fire.

The white smoke turns to the other side, as do the rabbits.

Those that make it far enough, the rabbits of course, are met with the mans lost treasures.

Here, abandoned cars stood parked in the sun. Paint chips and small pieces of metal lay in the grass. Mirrors and car doors were thrown into the soil, the weeds growing over them, forming a sort of coat similar to dew. The velvety moss spreads from the inside of the tires up the sides of the doors, crawling through the cracks of the windows and seeping into the seats.

Once sat women in wool skirts, fancy blouses and curled hair were now replaced by the feeling of lingering regret, self-loathing and the small amounts of tobacco in the crevices of the door. The one night stands and the late night drives trickle through the open window and into the smokey air.

The Chevy, dating back many years, stood in its lonesome. The light blue paint had now mostly been chipped off, and what was left had turned into a murky brown. Beaten from the sun and pouring rain, it had most definitely seen better days.

The inside of the car was relatively barren, the seats and buttons intact, aside from a few gauges ripped out from the passenger seat. Across this seat was the glovebox, locked with a key. Inside, sealed away from the present, were a few keepsakes, forgotten by the old man. No, never forgotten, rather it’s rediscovery would be too painful.

The feeling of the velvety seats beneath his legs, the smell of fresh air and the sound of the engine purring to life as his hand not only turned the key, but turned him young again. He could still remember the feeling of the steering wheel in his hands, sleek and cold, clutching it tightly as he sped down the highway. Beneath the remaining chips of paint lie the memories of their past adventures. Green lights, snow covered asphalt, rainfall splashing against the windshield, detours around the coast, midnight visits at the local diner.

But most importantly, her.

She, unlike him, was never afraid of those silly white rabbits.