Last night, I started editing Draft #5 of my new book. It felt like coming home.

* * * * *

This weekend is the Palm Sunday service. I’m thinking seriously about staying home and watching the livestream, because I don’t like how they begin by going outside and marching through the neighborhood, waving palms and singing. I know it’s supposed to be symbolic and powerful, but when I did it a few years ago, I felt conspicuous and self-conscious. If I lived in one of the apartment buildings overlooking the sidewalk in front of the church, I’d wonder why those idiots were traipsing around underneath my window.

* * * * *

Next week, Olivia will turn eighteen. It feels so unreal. I remember her as a kitten who barely fit in my hand. Now, she’s going to be old enough that if she were human, she could vote.

This must be how parents of human children feel when their offspring drive away and it doesn’t make any sense because just this morning they needed help tying their shoes.

* * * * *

On my way home from errands this evening, as dusk was darkening, I turned onto my street behind another car. I saw something small and gray dart into the road. My first thought was that it was a squirrel.

The car ahead of me didn’t slow down or swerve. Its brake lights never went on. Instead, the car ran right over the creature and kept going.

I stopped. Part of me wanted someone to tell me what to do, but I was alone. So I clicked my headlights to high and turned on my emergency flashers so that nobody would hit my car. Then, uncertain and slightly stunned, I got out to see what had been hit.

At first, I thought it was a cat because it was the right size. Questions about what to do if this was someone’s pet—how to find its owner, what to tell them—flashed through my mind.

Except it wasn’t a pet. It was a rabbit, same as the ones I occasionally saw in my yard. A harmless bunny. Minding its own business, running as rabbits do, without regard for whether they’re on lawn or asphalt.

The tires had apparently gone squarely over its midsection, squashing most of the life out of it. Most of its innards were on the road. Wet red muscle showed in one of its rear legs like a diagram in an anatomy text. The rabbit’s ears twitched as I came closer. One glossy dark brown eye looked up at me. I felt as if I should say something, but as I watched, the twitching stopped and the eye merely stared.

My house was only a few doors away. I drove home, put the car in the garage, and went inside to use the bathroom and get latex gloves. I donned a reflective vest over my jacket. Then I took an old square-edged shovel, a trash bag, and a little rechargeable lantern, and I walked back up the road to where the rabbit still lay. It didn’t appear that anyone else had hit it again, which was fortunate.

I thought at first that I could maneuver the rabbit into the bag, but it quickly became clear that this wouldn’t happen unless I actually handled it. Even with the gloves, I wasn’t willing to do that.

As I was maneuvering the rabbit onto the shovel, an SUV stopped. The driver asked if everything was okay, and I explained what had happened. “People walk along here with their kids,” I said as if protecting innocent children from viewing the carnage were my primary motivation. She nodded and told me that ten minutes earlier, a fox had gotten one of her daughter’s ducks, and her daughter was distraught. I didn’t ask why she was driving out of the neighborhood instead of staying at home to comfort her daughter. She told me several times I was a good person for what I was doing, but she didn’t offer to help. Instead, she cautioned me to be careful since it was pretty much dark by then, and she drove away.

I carried the rabbit on the shovel, mostly covered with the garbage bag, back to my house. There wasn’t room on the shovel blade for the innards, too. I told myself something would come along in the night and eat them. By the time I reached my house, my arm ached from the way I was holding the shovel, with the blade and the rabbit out in front as if this were some sort of curious funeral procession.

When I reached my house, I thought briefly of burying the carcass, but that seemed to be going too far. Instead, I tossed it into the woods behind my house and silently apologized to the bunny rabbit for its fate.  

By the light in the garage, I saw that the shovel was covered with blood. Since it’s only March, the water to the outside is still turned off. I could have gone down to the basement to turn it on and connected the hose, but it felt like too much work. Instead, I took my gallon watering can inside, filled it with hot water, and added some bleach. Outside, I poured the bleachy water over the shovel’s blade and watched the steam rise in the evening chill. Back in the garage, I replaced the shovel and set the empty watering can on the table with a note to remind myself that it had contained bleach and would need to be washed out before I used it to water plants. Then, I went inside and wondered why I felt like crying.

* * * * *

This hasn’t been a good month for staying alive. Last Saturday, I went to the funeral of a woman I knew who’d passed away at the beginning of the month following a three-year battle with cancer. In addition to the bunny rabbit, Dr. Henry Lee died today after a brief illness. He was a famous forensic investigator who worked and taught here in Connecticut for decades. A few hours after I learned of Dr. Lee’s passing, I discovered that a lawyer whom I knew by reputation had died last week—I have no idea of the cause of death, but according to a comment posted by another lawyer, his passing sounded sudden.

The woman was fifty-one. The lawyer was fifty-three. Those numbers never used to sound young. Dr. Lee was eighty-seven, which makes more sense. The rabbit appeared to be full-grown.

* * * * *

Stella has taken to cuddling tightly up against me at night. This is a recent and surprising development, especially considering how much she yells at me, Danny, and everybody else who has the temerity to draw near. She spends much of her day sleeping in a bed in the kitchen that sits on the board that rests atop the covered litter boxes. I put the board across there long ago so the cats could sit there and look out the window onto the front porch. Charlotte occasionally uses this perch to watch birds, but now that Stella has claimed it, nobody else goes up there.

Kallie spends most of her days in a little fabric house that came with them from their former owners’ home. The house sits on the treadmill in my office. I’m not saying this is why I haven’t used the treadmill in months, but it’s as good a reason as any. At night, Kallie comes up on the bed. In the morning, I frequently find her sleeping on my chest. Since she only weighs around six pounds, this isn’t a problem. What is a problem is her fondness for trying to wake me up by chewing on my hair. I’ve taken to putting it in a braid at night so she can’t get to it, which makes me look like Ma Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie.

* * * * *

I think I may have a title for my new book. I’ve been calling the manuscript  Claus #3, but this is obviously not a long-term solution. I had another idea for a title a few months ago, but I never really liked it and I’m relieved to have an idea I like better.  

* * * * *

My mother called today to tell me she’d opened a large canister containing photos of my grandmother’s family. She wanted to know whether I wanted any of them. I said I’d be interested in seeing them, but if she was asking whether I wished to bring them into my home, the answer was “no.” I feel as if I should want them since they document the history of my family and this sounds like something a writer should want to explore, but the truth is that if I bring them home, they’ll sit in a box until I die and then someone else will throw them out because these photos of people I never knew will have even less meaning for whoever cleans out my house.

I told Mom she should send all this material to my cousin, Lisa. Long ago, Lisa wrote an essay detailing the history of that side of the family. I think it was a class assignment. I doubt she’d thank me for this suggestion, but she’s retired, so if she wants to work on a family history, she has the time. Plus, her house is bigger than mine, so she has more room to store such things.

* * * * *

A few days ago, I drove past a former orchard. Five deer were grazing even though most of the grass is still dead. None of them had antlers. I couldn’t tell whether they were does or fawns. The traffic passing a few yards away didn’t faze them.

* * * * *

Last week, I listened to a podcast about writing well-developed characters. One of the tips was to identify the character’s “diagonal toast” trait. The source of this term was a person who refused to eat toast unless it was cut on the diagonal; the person who coined the term said that it meant a trait that is so clearly from real life that it makes the character come alive.

Not long after that podcast, I suddenly thought of a diagonal toast trait for one of my major characters, Ralph. It was so perfect that it never occurred to me that I might forget it, so I didn’t bother to write it down. This, of course, is the kiss of death. Last night as I began work on Draft #5, I made notes about tidbits I needed to add, and I couldn’t remember Ralph’s diagonal toast trait. I wrote myself a note before bed in case my subconscious produced the information while I slept, but no luck. Even now, I have no idea what it might be. Serves me right.

* * * * *

Rosie is snoring so loudly that I can hear her over the Strauss sonatina on the radio. I’ve never known another cat who snores with such fierce devotion to her craft.

* * * * *

Every Friday night—actually Saturday morning, because it arrives shortly after midnight—I receive an email from Wowbrary. It tells me about new offerings at my local library. Usually, I end up going into the library’s app to place a hold on at least one of the books or movies Wowbrary has mentioned. It’s quite possibly the best email I receive each week.

* * * * *

Dinner tonight consisted of leftovers and items I needed to use becasue they were on the cusp of spoiling. I sautéed mushrooms in butter, sherry, garlic paste, and herbs. Then, I added cut-up grilled chicken and chicken gravy and allowed everything to simmer while I microwaved green beans and farro. It was one of those meals that are satisfying not only because of their flavors, but because I’ve succeeded in using up items that would otherwise have gone to waste.

* * * * *

Long ago, I took my then-boyfriend to a little Italian restaurant in a tiny strip mall in Danbury. I ordered veal marsala, and he ordered the rabbit special. I’ve heard it said that rabbit tastes like chicken, but I didn’t try any of his entrée and that was the only time I’ve ever been with anyone who was eating rabbit.

* * * * *

Kallie came out to the living room and hopped up into my chair to urge me to wrap this up. She’s amazing agile for nineteen. When I didn’t promptly close down the computer, she retreated to the bedroom. She’s waiting for her bedtime treats. The others have all gone to sleep already, but when I get out of the recliner, they’ll wake up and clamor for their treats. It’s our routine. Nobody else understands, but we don’t need them to.