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Descriptive Essay About A Rabbit

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I’m still not sure about the ceramic rabbit. It’s currently living in the garden outside my kitchen window. It’s nineteen inches tall. Its ears stick straight up. And it’s purple. Bright purple. With demonic eyes always staring back at me. I got it at a yard sale, an impulse purchase, as these things often are.
It was the end of August, and I’d left a visit to see my parents in Pennsylvania until the last minute, trying to avoid political conversations with my dad and less inclined to smile brightly as though all was right with the world. And so I made the 7-hour drive from Maine, looking forward to hitting the Saturday morning yard sales around my hometown with my mom and one of my older sisters, who would also be visiting that weekend from Maryland.
My hometown has been down on its luck for more years than I care to count. The roads are rutted with potholes. The sidewalks are cracked and bulge unevenly where the roots of trees try to break free of their captivity. Out in the north end, where I grew up, and where we started our scavenging, the homes are generally small, brick, post-World War II era. There are neatly-tended yards, and then there are the ones where the grass hasn’t been cut in a long time or odds-and-ends have accumulated on the front porch.
Our first stop was two doors down from The Cup, a building in the shape of a cup, with a stir-stick coming out of the top. I worked there in high school, whipping up subs, scooping ice cream, and waiting tables. Now it

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