“How did you know where to look?” I asked. It’s a pretty big neighborhood.

“We saw him at the same staircase as last time.”

“So why didn’t you catch him?” I asked him curiously.

Avi sighed.  Don’t mothers understand anything? “Because he keeps running away.” Avi confirmed that the bunny’s owner brings him food, but Avi was also under the impression that there was tasty foliage for the bunny to eat. It was at this juncture in the adventures of bunny that I learned he had a name. Fluffy.

“Oh, does Fluffy belong to an English-speaking boy?” I asked as I stroked Avi’s hair. When dealing with 11-year-old boys, it’s always good to keep any conversation going.

Avi shrugged and nodded. He uses English mostly to communicate with me.

“Why doesn’t the boy call out to Fluffy?” I wondered out loud. Do rabbits even respond to their names?

“Of course, he does,” Avi sighed. “But Fluffy doesn’t come.” I guess chasing after a runaway bunny is more exciting than talking about it.

But I was concerned.  A street cat could hurt or attack a bunny rabbit. Other dangerous things could happen on the streets or under the stairs.

“Nothing will happen to him,” Avi reassured me. “There are no cats where he is.” He went back to his book.

No cats? In Jerusalem there are cats everywhere.

The search for Fluffy continued. Avi gave me terse answers to my annoying questions. I wanted this saga to bond us. Avi wanted the thrill of the chase, while maintaining his youthful optimism that goodness would prevail and boy and bunny would reconnect. But Fluffy seemed very independent and had no interest in being caught.

In the quiet hours before bedtime, I was itching to spend quality time with my son.  Once upon a time, we’d snuggle together as I read him a bedtime story. He was the youngest of many siblings, my holdout at motherhood. I’m desperate to grasp on to those last slippery strands that attach me to my son’s childhood.

“Do you want me to read to you?” I asked as he played with his favorite toys. He was too wrapped up in his own world of racing cars and policeman. “How about we play a game?” He looked up, studied me, and declined.

I head off to straighten up my kitchen, a little disheartened. I think about the boy next door who’s playing hide and seek with his bunny, hoping to bring him back home.

I, too, am in search of my Fluffy.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 775)