Something else that never came out in therapy.

Velveteen.
Of all the words in the English language
she had to use that one.
Velveteen.
Like "The Velveteen Rabbit."

It's one of those words
that loses its already vague meaning
the more times you say it.
Velveteen.
Velveteen.
Velveeta.
Grilled cheese sandwiches.
More repressed childhood memories.
Wonderful.

But back to "The Velveteen Rabbit."
I was five, maybe six.
It was Christmas time and she thought
it'd be a good book to read
since we had a rabbit of our own at the time.
The end was sad despite the fucking rabbit
like Watership Down, that miserable book
they made into a cartoon that no child should watch
despite the bunnies.

Then she decided to divorce my father.
I didn't know he was crazy then.
I held it against her.
We had to give our rabbit away
when we moved out of his house
since our new apartment was too small
and didn't allow pets.
She got me a snowglobe with two cats
that played "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas"
and it made me cry when she wound it up
and let me hear the song for the first time.
She knew why it upset me, the miserably
overanalytical little turd that I was even then.
She too doubted we ever would have one again.
Not without Daddy around.
Crazy as he was, she loved him.
I think she still did until a few years ago
when he stopped returning my calls.
No, not everything about growing up
is soft and fuzzy.
Not everything is this elusive velveteen.

A single adjective can trigger
a lifetime's worth of misspent youth
to flash through my brain in seconds.
Words are more powerful than I believe sometimes
even as someone who likes to write them.

I stop typing to glance across the room at my pet rabbit
hiding from me in the darkest corner of my room.
Velveteen.
She stops twitching her nose in the hopes
that I don't see her, will leave her alone.

Fuck "The Velveteen Rabbit."
Sorry I didn't enjoy storytime, Mom.
I'm making up for it now.