Easter Tail

ham\'ham\n [hamme] 1: a cut of meat consisting of a thigh; esp: one from a hog 2: a showy performer; esp: an actor performing in an exaggerated theatrical style

So scabball never quite came to be and Buford the Bunny found himself speeding his way home from his first practice of the season. Chaos loomed in the aftermath of a bitter work stoppage, and Buford, like many of his peers found himself a free agent signee on a brand new team with brand new faces. Some of the old familiar ones he meekly missed in the process of turning reality into another memory. As his mind wandered, he heard a noise- KABOOM! Buford's timing belt gave way and the power of his engine ground to a halt.

One minute he was moving full speed, cranking the tunes basking in the glow of a successful athletic outing. It had been a decent evening nothing to take for granted. Even his groin, continually injured the previous season, didn't bother him at all. The next thing he knew, Buford's engine stalled, and he limped to the intersection lucky to hit a red light as he desperately tried to restart himself. After a long hard spring, where events toppled down upon themselves like a row of dominoes (vacation plans fell on through, scheduled to work right through June; personal changes happened too soon), to take away his wheels seemed like a cruel irony to it all.

His one lucky break was he ended up near by a service station. Not knowing if it was a trustworthy place, he did not know what he should do. But they were very kind. Provided good customer service. Did an initial check to see if they could determine what the problem was, offered to better any other estimates. They provided a needed calm in a stressful situation.

Strikes aside, silence inside, bonking timing belt noises outside, Buford made it home. That was a blessing; better count those for he knew not when they too might disappear. The weighted stress of disappointment was sometimes hard to take. Buford knew it was all in the way one looked at things. Often time, you have to dig beneath the surface, keep on looking, to reveal life's many hidden treasures. No use dwelling on the downers. There was always further to fall. All he had recently achieved in both his personal and professional life was certainly nothing to sneeze at.

He hoped he could fall asleep quickly and when he awoke everything would go away and be O.K. But he could not sleep. He was too tired. Cutoff, detached with his mind racing a million miles an hour down that same old dead end street, he tossed and turned, resigned to another sleepless night. He began to realize that this was his fate, his life was somehow being lost in the flurry of time gone by. What happened tomorrow likely wouldn't be much different than what happened today yet it was radically different than what happened yesterday. Still, the feeling lingered that somehow this wasn't the way things were supposed to be.

The next morning he went to his refrigerator and took out a carton of eggs. He took out his paints and went to work; church colored prayers, ribbons and bows, and highway lines etched in his memory from years past, the lines connected to one and other in the most circular manner imaginable. Green swirls mixed with red skies and gray hues, cathartic creativity hidden deeper than the yolks of the cracked hard boiled eggs. He never considered himself an artist, and sometimes the monotony of his once a year, "special" job seemed to be more of a chore than a craft. Somehow he was able to get it done, and somehow the final result was rewarding. But somewhere along the way, his sense of adventure and humor had walked away. He wondered what would change if his deliveries ever stopped. Would Peter Cottontail keep hoppin' down that bunny trail? Would Humpty Dumpty rise again?

Ah, but it was springtime, the time a young bunny's heart turned to the bark of unprotected saplings. He looked across the land of a vast field in front of him. Underneath, his feet sunk in the marshy like rain drenched grass. It was the perfect weather for a romp in the park, a swing on a swing, a memory of a long lost trip, merely a phone call, or an email away. He thought of days when he had messed up and dropped the ball. Another opportunity lost, never to be seen again. As time went by, none of it seemed to matter as much anymore. Much of it was tax deductible. For a flash of a moment, he actually felt inspired again.

His reflection looked back from the pool of a puddle that was spilled in the middle of the field. His sensitive rabbit's ears had finally heard from the girl with a man's name. She was a better man than he could ever be. The lingering presence of the spirit shot through the palm of his hand. He envied that lucky old gift that got to change hands. His face had the look of quiet confidence of one who looked as if he knew more than he actually did. He looked back up in the distance. The future seemed unlimited, so many roads ahead yet to travel. If and when that old timing belt got fixed, Buford would start again., for he had finally learned his valuable lesson: Never put all your eggs in one basket.