I held her as she died.
A strong kick as the seizures rippled through her body. A moment of calm as I told her I was there, that she would be all right, just relax...and then another kick.
Three times she did this and then she was gone. Ten minutes before midnight.
I held her in a way she would have never allowed had she still be alive, curled up in my arms, my head bent to her fur.
I cried again. I'd been crying off and on since the evening before when I knew death was coming for her and as soon as she evaporated into the universe, I cried anew.
I lay her on the floor so Jackson could understand that she was gone. Jackson was not having it - he was hunched in his tunnel and was not interested in saying goodbye on my timeline.
There I was, crying and confused as to what I was supposed to do with the body of my dead rabbit.
The voice calls for me from the other room. It is Emily.
She has a hellacious vomiting virus that has waited until this moment to reveal itself.
I clean the bucket filled with vomit and trash and return it to my child, soothing her. I tell her that I will come and get her in a few minutes and she can stay in my bedroom. I don't mention that I have to find a box for the body of Coco.
Once I transport her to the garage, I clean the next bucket of vomit and get my sick 17 year old child into my bed.
"Did Coco die?", Emily asks.
"Yes. I held her until she was gone."
"Where is she?"
"In the garage, in a box. In the morning we will take her to the vet and have her cremated", I murmur.
My rabbit has died, and my child is now vomiting in ten minute cycles.
"This kind of sums up motherhood, I think" says my daughter, just as she begins puking again.
Yeah, I think, it does. Adulthood too.