This is Cinnamon–a loyal rabbit with an old soul. If you called his name, he'd come running. He was as New England as bunnies come, straight from a farm hutch in Connecticut. We talked through a lot, nose to nose, on our tummies in the grass. A rabbit can be a refuge.
And so, his namesake lives on.
This poem, worn page scanned in by my dad, read aloud best by my mom, is from The Sleepy Book written by Margaret Wise Brown, and will always sound like bed time: