Bunnies

My mom emailed from Sweden that she needs a bunny. This clearly doesn't mean anything to you, but it is code in my family for being homesick. It all started when I spent the summer I was 17 living in Tokyo. I desperately missed my friends and was homesick for my family. I made an unfortunate choice of literature to take with me: On the Road and Walden. Two books that made America appear to be the promised land and I was still uncynical enough to believe it was just that. On the Road made me feel cramped on a tiny island where I couldn't drive, and Walden emphasized the enormity of the city that spread out around me, bigger than anything I have ever imagined.

Of course, it isn't as though I was miserable the whole time; I loved learning to ride the subway by matching Japanese characters on maps and those on the subway lines. I loved crossing the Shibuya intersection and imagining someone looking down from above and seeing my blond head in a sea of black. I loved the new flavors, customs, smells, sights, language. The culture shock was intense- it had all the force of a physical electric shock and would hit me continually throughout the day and night. I longed for that level of shock when I was in Israel and in Europe, but nothing compared. I don't know if anything ever will compare to that first time abroad without my family in one of the world's biggest cities.

Most of the time, I was fine, but whenever I would talk to my mom, I would sob into the phone line, "I am having a really great time. I love it here...". I'd hang up the phone and be ok again, until the next call. The day after one of these calls, I received an airmail package. I couldn't imagine what was important enough to rate the most expensive express mail price. I opened the box and in it was my mom's stuffed bunny. There was a note that said, "I wish I could be there to hug you in person, but since I can't be, I am sending Bradley instead. Love, Mom. PS. This is only a loan." Bradley helped immensely. He was a tie between my home and Tokyo and during those lonely mornings when I would awaken to the sound of crows at 4 am, he was my best and only companion.

The next summer, I backpacked in Europe by myself. For part of the time, I met my friend, Laurel, her family, and lovely friends of the family who lived in Orleans. I started learning French, we ate incredible food including a home cooked meal for July 4th that they tried to make as American as possible; complete with what was supposed to be egg salad (quail eggs on a stick) and pasta salad that was drowning in so much white wine I felt guilty giving it a polite taste. We went to a nearby farm and picked fresh berries, and explained to an uncomprehending farmer why I couldn't drink his homemade currant wine. Fortunately, the postman pedaled down the dirt road in time to drink my share.

When I was getting ready to leave this near paradise, Laurel's mom told me she had something for me. She returned from her room with a stuffed bunny half the size of Bradley and about the size of my forearm. "Your mom asked me to give you this," she said. "She wanted something small enough to fit in your backpack. I felt silly, since 18 seemed too old for stuffed animals. I worried someone would see it at one of the hostels and realize that I was what I feared: a little girl in disguise. At the same time, there were plenty of nights when I smuggled the bunny into my sheets with me and held him close.

The next year, I went to Sweden and right before I left, my mom and step-dad presented me with yet another bunny. This one fit comfortably in the palm of my hand. "The bunnies get smaller every time, because you are becoming more and more independent, but we still didn't want you to get lonely," said my step-dad. "Your step-dad picked it out himself," my mom said.

When my friends were homesick in Sweden, I'd loan them the bunny. We all knew it was silly, and yet, somehow it worked. One day, my friend was extra sad, so I handed her my bunny, her bunny, and a stuffed moose someone had given my while living in Sweden. After that, we'd rate a hard day by how many bunnies it took to make us feel better. "It's been a two bunny day," I'd report to her after the end of a challenging day. When she left Sweden, she made me a book called "Chicken Soup for the Soul in Sweden: For those two-bunny-and-a-moose days".

It's been 10 years. I've lived in multiple cities and countries since then and that bunny has been to every one with me. He keeps watch over my bedroom these days. If my mom had an address, I'd send him to her and share the comfort. I just don't think that a package labeled:

Mom
A ship
Somewhere in the Baltic
Close to Sweden

is going to make it there.