I call her Lena

I call her Lena, the white

fuzzy bunny I buy at the

shop in La Jolla. On the

corner near a jeweler.

It’s one of those shops

that has nothing you need

and everything perfectly

perfect for that special

occasion. For that special

person. Who loves

ladybug coasters or

notecards with baby

seals. And candles that

smell of sage and myrtle

and dragon fruit. And,

soft cuddly toys. Where

I find myself. Staring

at the basket of dolls

and bears and bunnies.

Like the ones that found

a home on my little girl

pink lace canopy bed. Back

when I would worry every

morning, praying to find

the right configuration the

right placement on the

pillows so no one would

be left out, my cuddly

toys that all had names.

Because they were real.  

And every night I held

them close. To keep them

safe. But really, it was

their softness surrounding

me that made me believe

I’d be ok. And before

I know it, I reach in

the basket. And find

her. Or rather, she

finds me. Pinkish-white.

Baby-soft bunny. And

I know I’ll name her

Lena, after the woman

on the windy steppe who

became my fast friend.

And was soft and silly

and loving and saw me.

Like my new little bunny,

Little Lena, lying there.

On my blue bed.