Chasing Rabbits

The words won’t come.

I can see them in my mind's eye. They spin and jumble and tangle like an old shoelace, refusing to be pulled free. My hands poised over the keyboard, but the screen remains blank. The words are there. They cry out to me when I desire silence and hide in silence when I want them to come. 

I reach down and scratch Boone's head. He stirs in his sleep and kicks. He must be chasing a rabbit. So am I. But my rabbit disappeared down a narrow hole, and I can't follow. I don't have a bottle of Alice's "drink me" to shrink me down enough to fit. So I sit and wait for it to pop back out, which it eventually does. 

But not tonight.

Some days, the words pour out of me so fast my fingers lag, my thoughts at least a paragraph ahead. Other days, like today, my thoughts flow like a dried-up riverbed. 

I need a break.

I push my chair back, careful not to roll over Boone's paw. One eye opens, focuses on me, then closes. Whatever, dad. Any other day, he would be at the door, anticipating a walk. But it's dark out. 10:01 by the clock on the wall. Even he knows it's time to rest. But that's the last thing I can do. I have a deadline.

I stand and grab my coat off the back of the chair. Boone goes back to his rabbit dreams. I'm giving up my chase for the moment, as I know I must. A little fresh air might just loosen things up. As I head for the door, I see a flash of light in the window. Oh good, rain. But that might be just what I need.

I stuff my hands in my pockets, hunkering against the cool air. The yellow light from the street lamps highlighting the first splatters against the pavement. The scent of rain refreshes the musty city air. I have no destination, my mind wandering to places beyond words.

She loved walking in the rain. She had an indomitable spirit that made me envious, but only in a way that complimented us. "Creativity isn’t about forcing something into existence," she said. "You can't force a sunset. Let it come, and it will."

I never had the patience for that.

I could see her in my mind's eye. The long, white, lacy dress and bouquet of daisies in her hand. I lift the veil, and I am at a complete loss for words. But my memory fails, and I can't see her face. 48 years is too much for a head full of unwritten words. I know she was beautiful.

I pass the coffee shop. The light is on and the neon "Open" sign beckons. I hesitate. Why not? I'm not sleeping, anyway. The smell of espresso and cinnamon hit me as I step inside. The girl at the counter, the only other person in the shop, lifts her eyes from a book. I wonder what she is reading. She smiles. I used to think that smile meant she liked me. But then I looked in the mirror and realized it was a what-a-sweet-old-man smile and not a I-want-to-get-to-know-you smile. It's funny, the stories my lonely old mind tries to tell me. 

I order black coffee. She looks at me with something like gratitude that I didn't ask for anything more complicated. She returns to her reading, and I sit at my usual table by the window. Sipping my coffee, I watch the rain streak down the glass and the light flickering across the sky. 

My thoughts drift back to another night, years ago. I sat beside the bed, gripping her hand, bracing for the moment I knew was coming. One machine beeped, marking each heartbeat; another hissed, forcing each breath. The words caught in my throat, and I couldn't respond to the question. All I could do was nod. The click of the switches followed by silence. No perfect goodbye, no grand, poetic farewell. She slipped away like a whisper on the wind. I don’t remember her face in that last moment. I remember her eyes, pale blue and empty of that something I always knew. That something that made her alive. There is no word for that. It just is.

I force the memory away. The storm is easing up outside. I take a sip of my coffee. It's cold.

That’s the real problem. I’ve been waiting for the perfect words instead of letting them be imperfect. It isn't about the absence of words. I have plenty of those. But the fear that they won’t be good enough, or grand enough, or poetic enough. Maybe they won't draw tears to your eyes, but they might make you think or forget or imagine. 

Then it reappears. The rabbit darts out of its hole and scampers across the green field. All I need to do is catch it. I leave the half-filled cup on the table and the barista to her book. With a renewed purpose in my step, I stride down the sidewalk, oblivious to the rain. The words organizing themselves into cohesive sentences, paragraphs, and entire chapters. 

I enter the house, finding myself blocked by 90 pounds of fur and curiosity. Where have you been, dad? I remove my coat at the door, giving in to the compulsory sniff-down. He lingers at the backs of my legs. Maybe some cat-lady was sitting in the same seat. The words are still there, but even now, less clear. I push past my furry blockade, dropping my jacket across the banister on the way up the stairs. The rabbit checks its watch, turns, and heads back for its hole. The clock reads 11:45. I have 15 minutes to make my deadline. I rush to my office.

I sit at my desk, adjusting the seat. The empty screen glares at me, taunting me. My hands poise over the keys, fingers ready. I force them to type.

"It was a dark and stormy night."

The rabbit disappears down the hole. My hands fall to my lap. Boone plops on the floor next to my chair and sighs.

The words won’t come.