Velveteen For Zoe last week I said “she’s looking a little velveteen.” and you glared at me because you knew what I meant. so old, for a bunny. so loved, for a being. I didn’t know that one week later she’d transcend this level of real in the deep dark of a tuesday midnight and in doing so, break all our hearts. I always said, “she’s not a bunny. she’s an angel in bunny form.” and I guess it was time for her to go and shine with some supernatural light somewhere else for awhile, but still, you kept asking me “what do I do? What do I do? WHAT DO I DO?” and I told you, “just hold her. hold her in her pain, like she has held you in yours.” and you nodded your head because you knew what I meant. and I’ve never been more proud of you my girl than I was while watching you walk our bunny angel to the gate at the edge of this world’s garden. I watched you let her land sure on her soft bunny feet in the velveteen evening light, whisper, “I love you.” and with every tear, say goodbye.
I’m neck deep in preparing for market season. Kids are getting out of school. And while my parents were on vacation these past few weeks, we lost two beloved household pets.
Grief comes in all shapes and sizes; Carmela was the goat I milked with I was pregnant with Isaiah, back when Ellie was flaring with her celiac disease every other week and I was desperate to do anything to help her feel better—homegrown goat milk seemed like a cute solution to try. And all the fresh yoghurt and ice cream we made from her milk were absolutely delicious.
To be honest, I had been dreading the day Carmela would leave us behind for years. She’s been whitening at the temples for a while now; a little slower, but just as sweet as she ever was. She was nearing her thirteenth birthday—a pretty average age for perfect goats to bid this place goodbye and head on to the next one. I’d just fed her some apple scraps the day before and she’d gobbled them down like she aways did.
And now she’s gone—but my body hasn’t fully caught up to my mind yet, because grief is a muscle memory; and every time I look out my kitchen window, I still catch myself scanning for her patient brown eyes—the ones that were a witness to 5pm daily wine drinking of the pandemic days, the ones that saw me when I was barley hanging on with newborn twins, the ones that seemed to know what kind of day I was having, and simply stood by as a kind of witness.
She took so many of our heartbreaks and secrets to her grave when we laid her to rest on the other side of the creek at the farm friday before last.
Then Tuesday evening hit us like a freight train with an even more devastating loss—Ellie’s beloved emotional support bunny Zoe.
She was probably 8 years old—and like Carmela, she too had begun to show her age. But she was still spunky and spry as anything; willing to hop up onto the top of Ellie’s desk to get a nibble of a tasty looking house plant, banging on her cage when she smelled popcorn (her favorite human snack), and always helping calm Ellie’s anxiety with her soft weight and bunny kisses on her chin. We’ve been lucky enough to enjoy almost five years of angel-bunny love with Zoe. And still, the time is never enough. Her loss has hit our family hard—especially our beautiful neurodivergent oldest, whose connection to animals has always been a calm amidst the storm of a loud mind.
Last Tuesday evening Zoe suffered what appeared to be a series of seizures or strokes that took her from us forever at 11:30pm. We didn’t sleep much that night.
The next day, I was chopping lettuce for the salad I was serving to friends and family who came to comfort us, and I was about to ask one of the twins to bring the bottom of the lettuce to Zoe, but when I remembered that she was lying cold in the garage and wouldn’t be eating lettuce from my hands anymore, I bust into tears.
Lately it feels like mothering is just learning how to walk my children through the valley of death—pets are only a piece of it.
There is so much wrong—and so little I can do to fix it for them.
So instead, I teach them how to hold on to their love, even when it means grief. I teach them that there is a time to hold close, and a time to let go. I show them that joy and sorrow can co-exist—that they must co-exist, if we’re going to have the strength to keep going no matter what comes next.
It’s all so much harder than I ever imagined it would be before I became a parent—but this experience is certainly not isolated to parenting.
Anyways. I’ve been quiet on the internet lately, because holding space for five little grieving people is a lot. I’m in the process of bringing home a new emotional support companion for our daughter, and I’m excited to tell you more about her soon.
But for now—I just wanted to say to you what I’ve been saying to my children all week—Grief is not weakness; it’s love. And love is the most powerful force in the universe.
xoxo,
Gracie
So, so good.
Thank you for the beautiful ode to The Velveteen Rabbit. Prayers to you and your family during this difficult time. 🙏🏾 ❤️