It would appear that, as a little girl, I enjoyed the companionship of stuffed bunnies. My interest in bunnies apparently began early.


And it continued.



My niece shares an interest in stuffed bunnies. “Bunny” is her best sleep buddy. I always thought my best sleep buddies had been my blankets, “Pretty” and “Fuzzy,” but perhaps I loved bunnies, too? Or I loved bunnies best of all? Even older I needed to display a bunny in order to pose for a photo.



Gosh, how cute are my sisters with their flowers? And there I am, clutching flowers and displaying a bunny, a different bunny from the earlier pictures. When did I stop loving bunnies? Or did I? Am I supposed to love bunnies now? Did I love bunnies into my teen years, but because I couldn’t remember why, I let my love burn out? Did my mother insist that I love bunnies because my sisters had already laid claim to kittens, puppies, and ponies? Why did I want to pose for pictures with bunnies? Did they have names? Did I name them or did my mother or sisters? Were these hand-me-down bunnies? Should I start loving bunnies again so that I can declare, I have always loved bunnies, ever since I was a little girl?

These are the questions I face when I peer at my childhood through the thick frosted glass.