The Garden

The Rabbit's grandparents had a garden.
Memory insists it was enormous.
Memory may be lying.
But if it is, it is lying consistently.
The Rabbit remembers a place large enough to contain entire worlds.

There was a pond.
The Rabbit would watch tadpoles for weeks.
Tiny black shapes becoming creatures with legs.
Then frogs.

The transformation felt impossible.
And yet it happened every year.
The Rabbit never got bored of it.

There was a garage too.
Full of tools.
Wood.
Interesting objects whose purposes were not entirely obvious.

The Rabbit liked places where things were being made.
The Rabbit liked watching people who knew how things worked.

Most of all, the Rabbit liked listening.
Its grandfather told stories.
Not stories for children.
Stories from a life that existed before the Rabbit.

Stories about flying in a bomber over Germany during the war.
Stories about people the Rabbit had never met.
Places the Rabbit had never seen.
Times the Rabbit could barely imagine.

The Rabbit listened carefully.
Not because it understood everything.
Because it liked hearing people talk about things that mattered to them.

The garden felt safe.
Not safe because nothing bad could happen.
Safe because the Rabbit was allowed to disappear into curiosity there.

For a few hours, there was nothing to solve.
Nothing to explain.
Nothing to get right.
Just tadpoles.
Stories.
Tools.
And time.