The argument persists, between literalism and reading beyond.
Once, years ago, I saw a woman dressed in the costume of a pink bunny. She leaned into the railing of the old Cliff House, the last Cliff House before the current slick incarnation. I never saw her face, but knew from the slightness of shoulders and a gentle torque of hip that she must have been as I imagined her, a she-bunny, whiskers in black grease paint, a nose made pert with the same stuff, staring out to the parallel tides before her.
For all I know I remember it wrong. It was a man in a comedy of pink plush, small of stature, with a mustache and no whiskers. He casts a long look to the sea before him: how could he not, so disposed on a wintry Easter at the end of the 20th century, at the edge of a continent?
But I want to remember the way I do, and who is there to stop me? Blue bunnies and smartly dressed gents walking with purpose stick as surely as melancholy Easters past will haunt. I live to be haunted.
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