Requiem for A Childhood Pet

 We marched, a procession robed in

Millets and Craghoppers

And open-toed sliders, past the clicking knell of the

Do Not Open Gate

Into the garage where we keep the dead things:

Rollerblades, Lego sets, certificates,

Little white rabbit -

Beach towel shroud. 

Her broken little foot, rotten luck

Her weepy little eye, sticky dry

We put it all in the ground.

I walked, back to the wendyhouse where I

Could reach the top cupboard 

And all of the lights.

This is my first (very rudimentary) attempt at poetry. My little white rabbit was very aptly called Paige, and we adopted her when I was ten years old.  She was put down at the vets after breaking her foot, some smirking irony. We held something in the shape of a funeral in the garden, my dad as gravedigger. We traded traditional funeral garb for rustling outdoor raincoats and sliders that slapped the wet grass. The bordering ridiculous ritual made us laugh, if guiltily, at the whole ordeal. I couldn't help but feel on the awkward return inside that my 'childhood' as it were had gone down the garden with her, that that was the end of that. But before I let myself to feel too profound and grown-up, I looked down to the hot chocolate I was soothing myself with. Not quite grown up yet!