The Rhythm of a Rabbit

Rosie is a lop-eared rabbit with a lopsided hop and a deep love for kale. She’s been with me for five years now. Longer than I can remember without checking the notes my daughter taped to the fridge.

She thumps her back foot when I’m late. Stands on her hind legs when I walk into the kitchen. And every morning, I fill her bowl with pellets and greens, exactly the way she likes it.

She doesn’t care that I sometimes forget where I put the keys. She doesn’t ask if I remember her birthday. All she asks is that I show up. Same time. Same place. Same bowl.

When Routine Becomes Connection

Feeding Rosie isn’t just a task, it’s a tether. I talk to her while I scoop the pellets. I narrate my steps aloud. “Kale. Rinse. Dry.” She doesn’t answer, but she listens. Somehow, in her quiet, watchful way, she makes space for the pieces of me that feel scattered.

My daughter says Rosie keeps me sharp. I think Rosie keeps me human.

She reminds me of things I haven’t written down:
The morning light falls differently in winter.
That love doesn’t need to be remembered to be felt.
That being known, really known, can look like a rabbit waiting at a food bowl.

A Gentle Kind of Remembering

I still forget names. I still lose the thread. But every morning, Rosie is there. Expectant. Patient. Constant.

And in that small act of feeding her, of showing up, I remember something bigger than names or addresses. I remember that I’m still needed. Still connected. Still here.

Some days, that’s more than enough. Some days, that’s everything.