I know it takes acceptance, kindness, and more patience than I’ll ever have to win the trust—maybe even love—of an injured rabbit.
I don’t know if everyone can do it.
I don’t know if I can always do it.
I know that I’ve been scratched and bitten by most of these rabbits I care for.
I don’t know what they’ve endured.
I don’t know if I want to.
I know that even when you’ve won a rabbit’s trust, the anger and pain aren’t forgotten.
I don’t know if they ever are.
I don’t know if they ever should be.
I know that rabbits are silent, save for a high-pitched scream when they die.
I don’t know if I have words for my pain.
I don’t know if I’m ready to say them.
I know that just because something’s small, quiet, and defenseless doesn’t mean it won’t stand up and fight back.
I don’t know where courage like that comes from.
I don’t know if I have that kind of courage.
I know that, sometimes, when I’m overwhelmed with the enormity of healing, I stand near the rosebush at my back door and watch the bumblebees burrow up to their black fuzzy butts, their back legs pantalooned with yellow pollen, into the hearts of flowers.
I don’t know who planted that rosebush.
I don’t know if she sought solace in the bees.
Rebecca Jung is a writer and poet living in Pittsburgh, PA. Her work includes: ‘The Blessing’ (Sky Island Journal), ‘Sweet Retribution’ (The Write Launch), and ‘Passages’ (Memoir). She grew up an expat, returning to the US for her English writing BA from the University of Pittsburgh.