I wouldn't say it's his favorite book, but he comes back to it every so often, sometimes just once, sometimes over and over for days on end. I'm always achingly grateful when he does. He has learned how to throw out a flare, but I still wish he didn't have to.
We turn the pages slowly, pausing at each illustration to find the wayward bunny hiding in the garden or disguised on a mountainside. What is he running away from? I wonder. His home under the tree looks warm and cozy and his mama is crazy about him. He is offered safety, security, and relationship but instead he seeks out danger, isolation, and independence. Awfully human, this little fella.
Who am I? Who loves me? How do I know?
In the story, it is the mother bunny who chases after her baby; Z tells it his own way. His finger finds the little bunny, then slowly traces a path across the page from child... to mother. The ache eases: he is home.
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