I was four years old and living in a small cottage in West Virginia with my mother and sisters. I told my mom that I wanted a rabbit. She repeatedly said, "Wait until summer comes. In June you can have a rabbit."

It didn't seem like long. I remember approaching her in the kitchen as she did dishes, and I said, "Is it June yet?" "Yes," she replied. You can have a rabbit now." I was elated.

Wild animals ran rampant in the woods of West Virginia, and my mother contacted a trapper who snatched a rabbit for me. It was various shades of brown and white - a mountain rabbit. I was very proud of my pet.

A little girl, Sally, who lived a distance away, came with me every morning to see the rabbit. We pet it and fed it, and sometimes let it out of its cage. It stayed free and elusive for long hours before it wised up and went back into the cage. Visiting each other in the mornings to see my nameless pet together was a daily ritual. But although Sally always accompanied me to see it, I don't recall her ever speaking a word. She liked to go about things silently.

Once I looked at Sally's hands. They appeared strikingly small. From then on I eyed her hands whenever we met. They were so little. It began to be almost an obsession to me. I kept picturing her little hands.

Finally I spoke up. She and I were standing in front of the rabbit cage, and she watched me as I prepared to feed it. I looked at her and said, "You have little hands." Sally lunged backwards as if she'd been belted in the stomach. I never saw her again.

Those were the good old days.