When my mom was married to the Iranian we lived out int he country. As a geoligist, he couldn't find emplyment on our reservation.
So he spent his time at home and outside.
He bought animals, all kinds. We had our very own sort of petting zoo. The geese I let go, because I hate geese. He clipped their wings, so they walked somewhere late one night when I shooed them out of the chicken coop yard. I didn't mind the ducks or chickens, expecially when we had are weird overgrown chicken, Chick Chick.
We also had pigeons that we got from an old abandoned house. He liked pigeons and gave them all Persian names.
We also had maybe 7 cats, all outdoor and 2 dogs.
But the day we got the Rabbit Shed and rabbits was different.
We got two rabbits, a male and female.
Mama and Pops.
She was black and he was white and they lived on our happy farm without anyone judging them for their interracial bliss. They had babies quickly and all our baby chicks would stay in the rabbit shed with them. The rabbit shed was an old shed Behshid fixed to accomodate them. They stayed inside in the cold, but they had a secret tunnel made from an old gas tank that led outside to their yard.
My chore was to feed the rabbits and baby chicks.
I liked watching the baby chicks drink water. They put their head up and shake their neck back and forth until the water goes down.
I would walk out with all the scraps from the fresh veggies that day. I would sit in the rabbit shed with Mama and Pops and their babies in the cold and feed the rabbits.
At this time, at age 8, I would ponder the wonder of my life. Why was I here? Why did I exist? What was I supposed to do? Was I here for a reason? Did I matter to anyone? What was my final destination? How would I mark my existence here?
Then I would grab a piece of lettuce from the plate I had on the other side of the divider and munch on scraps with the rabbits. I would pull out my notebook and start writing my little stories about a stamp who traveled the earth to never find his destination. Or a penny who was with more people than Gene Simmons, except I didn't write that part....or a rock who lived through many battles and wars. I would write my dreams and hopes and fears.
When I think of it now, the reason for my existence was right there in front of me, in that rabbit shed, in that notebook.