The Head of Cabbage

The cabbage stared. Was that an iceberg lettuce over there on the other side of the cutting board—otherwise known as the chopping block? It was weird looking at your own green and leafy reflection in a knife blade the size of a hubcap—not that cabbages know much about cars. Now kings, on the other hand. Royalty and cabbage go a long way back.

I'll never forget my grandfather standing at the gate, the limp rabbit's hind legs caught up in one hand, its head and once-alert ears hung long, I reckon denied that last look at the cherished ground that provided shelter. No more the dark of the tunnels! Meanwhile, there nestled in grandad's other arm was a fine head of cabbage—also denied the rabbit—not your pale grocery section version but a deep rich green squeaky, tightly wrapping against itself head—no eyes there—no sight for the master of the vegetable world. Tight-lipped across the field and through the last gate home, the four of us stepped carefully.