This is the little bunny’s story. And he didn’t want to go to sleep.

In his great green room there was a telephone and a red balloon and a picture of a cow jumping over the moon“>moon.

Night after night the little bunny’s grandma would come into his great green room, push pink sky aside as it grew dark and lavender and finally navy blue outside his window, and carry out the same exact ritual.

Pajamas. Milk. Blankets tucked snug and soft up to his chin.

Then grandmother would sit in her chair by the fire with her knitting and croon to him —

**Sleep time. **

But the little bunny wasn’t quite ready to sleep.

Something was always wrong. Sometimes the room was too bright. Or too dark. Or the balloon looked like it was bobbing funny. Or he could hear a noise outside that he wanted to investigate. Or he was just not sleepy. Not tired at all. Not even a little bit.

“No!” he protested every night. Full stop.

Grandmother just smiled that smile every night. She had learned very early on that smile from her grandson. It was the smile of someone who knows this. She knows you don’t want to sleep. Been there. Done that. Got the sleepless kidgie tee shirt.

**You don’t have to sleep,** she would remind him. **You just rest. Close your eyes and rest. **

—

That night the little bunny realized something.

If he was stuck in this stupid bed anyway, he could at least say goodnight correctly.

So he would say goodnight to everything in his room.

Methodically. Quietly.

He looked at the telephone on the little table.

**Goodnight telephone,** he whispered.

Silence. The phone did not ring.

It was calming.

Slowly he made his way around the room.

Goodnight, red balloon hanging from the ceiling with your wild string pulled too tight.

Goodnight to the cow on the wall.

The cow never moved mid jump, always so poised. He liked that about her.

Slowly he finished.

Goodnight to everything.

—

Goodnight bowl of mush on the bedside table you were too hot to eat at dinner.

Goodnight moon hanging big and blue outside my window.

Goodnight room.

And then finally…

Goodnight old lady. Grandma-grandmother-grand lady sitting in your chair knitting and watching me like you do.

Her smile creased when she looked up at him and nodded, eyes crinkling as she mouthed the words back at him. **Goodnight little bunny. **

Goodnight room. Goodnight moon.

Goodnight to the comb on the dresser. Goodnight to the brush next to it.

Goodnight to the little toy mouse

sitting at the foot of the bed waiting

patiently as toy mice always do.

Goodnight to the ivory stars

coming out one by one

above the sea.

Poking through the deep blue

dark like little bunny shy lights someone

was turning on, quietly,

one by one across the sky.

“Goodnight, stars,” murmured the little bunny.

They did not reply. But they did not go away. That was enough.

Goodnight to the air –

warm quiet breath of the great green room

that smelled like warm milk and the wool of grandmother’s knitting

and something else, something that had no scent but was instead the feeling of safety and home and lovedness itself.

“Goodnight, air,” he whispered.

And then – since there was nothing left to say goodnight to –

And since the room was very warm and very quiet –

And his grandmother’s needles were clicking softly and regularly in her calm old hands –

“Goodnight, noises everywhere.”

His eyes fluttered shut.

They were not commanded to do so. They simply did, like eyes will when the body can trust its surroundings, when it finally agrees to rest because everything around it has listened for so long that it knows-

The room is good.

The blanket is warm.

And the person rocking is someone who loves you like no one else can or will.

His breaths evened out.

The balloon bumped gently against the ceiling.

The moon pushed itself fully through the window now, white and round and still.

Painting broad strokes of liquid silver light onto the floor of the great green room.

His grandmother’s needles clicked.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

She glanced over at him then –

his small serene face hidden against the pillow –

and set her knitting aside gently in her lap, leaning forward very slightly so she could study him

silently for a few quiet moments –

the way grandmothers study sleeping children

when they are flooded with something so powerful that it can’t possibly have a word assigned to it yet still must be described.

She turned the light down low.

“Goodnight, little bunny ,” she whispered to the room and him and everything and nothing all at once.

Slowly.

Softly.

The room cozied down into bed.

Quiet and warm and safe with the moon watching over it, and the stars doing their business, and the red balloon hanging very still against the ceiling.

Everything was as it should be.

For now.

The End.

(It’s okay to close your eyes now.)

The moon is up. The stars are out.

Everything else can wait until tomorrow.

Sweet dreams.

Goodnight. 🌙

If you want to read more like this, click here: Little Red Riding Hood

little bunny little bunny little bunny.