Because of Emily

"Why don't you write anymore?"

"You know why."

"After all this time?"

I can feel my hand involuntarily tightening around my phone and I have to make a conscious effort to relax my grip.

"How can you say that?!"

"It's been seven years, Danni."

"How can you say that, Darren?! She was your daughter too!"

"Okay. I know. Maybe I shouldn't have said it like that. I'm sorry. But why haven't you started writing again? You told me writing was your life."

Writing had been my life before Emily was born. Once she came into the world she became my life, and when her life ended at the age of five mine ended as well.

"Danni? Are you still there?" Darren's voice sounds uncertain.

"I'm here," I force myself to mumble in reply.

"You know refusing to write isn't going to bring her back."

"I know that! Is that really what you think I think?!" I can not control the rage that grabs sudden hold of me. I can feel the heat in my cheeks and know they must be flushed an intense shade of red.

"I don't know what you're thinking, Danielle! I don't understand why you've abandoned everything that ever meant anything to you."

"Because...because it just doesn't matter. My stories don't matter anymore. Nothing does."

I can hear Darren sigh on the other end of the line.

"I understand why you felt that way for the first year," he states. "But now? After seven

years?"

"I'm glad it's been so easy for you to move on and forget about our daughter, Darren!"

"Oh come on, Danielle, that's bullshit. I never said that and I never meant that! You're just being spiteful and mean-spirited!" My ex-husband has always been notably even tempered and slow to anger, but he sounds a little closer to that point now.

I don't say anything in reply.

Darren sighs again, but when he speaks his voice is once more calm and collected.

"I'm just worried about you, that's all. I thought the therapist was helping."

"She is." I don't think about killing myself twenty-four seven anymore, anyway. I keep this thought to myself.

"When was the last time you talked to her?"

"That stopped being any of your concern when you divorced me, Darren."

"Danni..."

It's my turn to sigh.

"If you have to know, I have an appointment with her tomorrow. Okay?"

"Okay. Good."

"I've got to go now."

"Danni..."

"No, I...I need to go. I have a burger on the stove. I don't want to burn it. Thanks for calling. Bye, Darren." I smash my thumb down on the red 'end call' button before he has the chance to respond.

I don't have a hamburger on the stove.

Emily's bedroom looks exactly the same as it did seven years ago when she'd last slept in it.

I am well aware that Darren, my parents, and my therapist are all of the mind that keeping this 'shrine' to my deceased daughter is hurtful rather than beneficial. They are entitled to their opinion. They may even be right. Yet I have never been able to get rid of any of her belongings without triggering a depressive episode, not even her clothes.

I am also well aware that if Emily was still alive today she would be eleven years old and her room would look very different than it does now. It would probably be less pink, and the posters of bunnies on the walls would without doubt have been replaced by posters of popular boy bands with heartthrob lead singers and one or two mediocre top hits.

I sit down on her perfectly made bed and pick up her favorite stuffed animal, a pastel purple bunny. Emily had loved all animals but rabbits were her special favorite.

She'd named her stuffed bunny Hop-Hop after the bunny in a story I had made up for her. Darren always said that I should have gotten the story published so other children could enjoy it as much as Emily did. But that never happened.

Hop-Hop had gone everywhere with Emily. I remember being relieved that her doctor had allowed her to bring the toy to her chemo treatments. There would have been hell to pay if Hop-Hop had been forced to stay in the car.

Mommy, Hop-Hop's scared.

Why is he scared, sweetheart?

He heard the doctor say the medicine's not working. He's scared that I'm going to die and he's going to be all alone.

You tell Hop-Hop that it's okay to be scared. Even brave little bunnies get scared sometimes.

I'm scared too, Mommy.

I know, Em. It's okay for brave little girls to be scared sometimes too.

"I miss you, Em," I whisper out loud into the empty bedroom, squeezing the stuffed bunny against my chest. Its lavender fur is damp from my tears.

The pink and yellow silk roses on Emily's grave are still in good condition, not yet ravaged by sunlight.

I sit down cross-legged at the foot of her plot. The engraving on her headstone swims in and out of focus through my tears.

EMILY RAIN COLLI

6/20/2006-9/01/2011

WE MISS YOU

An almost imperceptible rustling in the nearby ivy bush catches my attention. I turn my head in that direction just as a fat grey rabbit hops into view.

It sits by the bush watching me with bright black eyes, its inquisitive nose sniffing at the air.

I remain as still as I can so as not to frighten the animal off.

After a moment or two it hops just a little closer to me, its eyes still on my face. I extend one hand, keeping my movements as slow as possible.

The rabbit does not immediately disappear back into the ivy as I'd expected, but instead approaches me with caution to sniff at my offered fingers.

Both of its ears swivel backward as though picking up on some slight noise that I can't hear, and it hops back toward the bush with one final glance back in my direction.

Once I get back home I walk into my den and sit down at the computer Darren had purchased for me two years ago in the vain hope that it would encourage me to return to my writing.

My mouth feels dry and my heart is hammering in my chest as I open a new Word document.

I take several deep, steadying breaths and begin to type.

Brave Little Hop-Hop

By Danielle Colli