When God was a Rabbit

by Sarah Winman

Or maybe a full stomach of dumplings and strudel had softened the blow;

Funny

All I had suggested was that Jesus Christ had been a

mistake, that was all; an unplanned pregnancy. ‘Unplanned indeed!’ screamed the vicar. ‘And where did you get such blasphemous filth, you ungodly child?’

‘Without a reason, why bother? Existence needs purpose: to be able to endure the pain of life with dignity; to give us a reason to continue. The

‘He who has a why to live for, can bear almost any how ,’ I said solemnly. ‘That’s Nietzsche ,’ I continued with emphasis.

Unknown to me, she was the product of missionaries who had spent a lifetime preaching

the Lord’s work in an inhospitable part of Africa, only to have found that the Muslims had got there first.

The straw in the manger smelt strong. I’d brought it from home and even though it wasn’t clean, it was authentic. Michael Jacobs, who was

‘Christ, that was quick,’ said Nancy. ‘What were they doing? Saving electricity?’

‘Memories,’ she said to me, ‘no matter how small or inconsequential, are the pages that define us.’

Winter had fallen heavily and precisely that morning across an unprepared valley. Everything felt slow.

They had first met years ago on the London scene when their faces were smooth and devoid of experience, and had ended up sharing many things, including a flat in Bayswater and a ballet dancer called Robin. Their banter was rich and comfortable, their teasing intimate and profound; their ‘I love you’ without the use of those startling words. Ginger arrived at our house at five o’clock on Christmas Eve, armed only with a suitcase full of champagne ‘and a change of knickers’, as she liked to whisper to Arthur, just to make him recoil into the darker recesses of our living room.

The old moored steamers were packed with drinkers, and the cool breeze that whispered through the city flicked the surface of

the Thames, scattering sunlight as white and as piercing as ice.

My brother had been one of the lured; brought by the promise of anonymity, not of gold, where he could be himself without the label of the past; without all those workings-out and crossings-out, the

things we have to do before we come to an answer, the answer of who we are.

Ellis re-entered our lives that evening in August, as shoppers gathered at corner bars, swapping tales of sales and divorces pending, of who loves who and holidays to come. I wrote about how he entered with a wallet crammed with fifties, and memberships

to MOMA and the Met, and loyalty cards for Starbucks and Diedrich’s

The witness of my soul, my shadow in childhood, when dreams were small and attainable for all. When sweets were a penny and god was a rabbit.