I’ve never been able to wink, and Nonna’s creepy rabbit never let me forget it

My nonna was an avid collector of peculiar trinkets.

Her house was filled with eccentric knickknacks ranging from wooden stencils, vintage Italian buttons, a vase made of bullet casing shells and rustic shoe-making equipment. As a child, I’d walk around her living room, running my hands over each item and learning the sentimental stories behind their value.

My grandparents, little brother and my least favourite object in the background.

But perched on a shelf behind her couch sat my least favourite thing in the entire world – a porcelain rabbit money box.

No one in my family remembers where the rabbit came from, only that it has always been there, and that I have always found it disturbingly creepy.

My dislike for the rabbit is twofold.

Firstly, it’s ugly. The rabbit possesses a unique kind of hideousness that terrified me as a child and has continued to disturb me well into adulthood.

Its white porcelain body is draped in a red scarf, and it clutches a green money sack with a small coin slit. Two sharp buck teeth protrude from its smirking mouth, while its eyes are frozen in an unsettling wink.

Which brings me to the second reason I dislike it. Blame undeveloped facial muscles or a weird genetic quirk, but I’ve never been able to wink – a long-running joke in my family. With its permanent wink, the rabbit is a reminder of an embarrassing personal flaw.

My nonna loved to laugh. She thought UGG boots were the funniest fashion accessory, and could spend hours laughing at Snapchat filters my little brother showed her. But nothing was more hilarious to her than my inability to wink.

My nonna’s creepy rabbit money box remains my least favourite thing in the world.

Whenever I’d stay with her, she’d move the rabbit from its usual spot on the shelf into my room and place it on the nightstand under the lamp. I’d wake up in the morning, and its freaky one-eyed face would be centimetres from my own.

Inevitably, I’d hear her giggles down the hallway, delighted that she had pulled off her prank. Thus began our ritual.

I would visit her, immediately locate the rabbit and turn it backwards so I couldn’t see its face. Nonna would then sneak back in and turn its face the other way. We’d take turns teleporting it into each other’s rooms, sometimes close to a mirror so that its face would stare at you through a reflection.

Whenever my mum picked me up, Nonna would always wait outside in her garden, waving until our car was out of sight. Sometimes, we’d lock eyes through the backseat window she’d give me a cheeky wink.

An unexpected stage-four cancer diagnosis in 2018 slowly stole many things from Nonna, including her love of cooking polenta, her ability to water her pink geraniums, and her fondness for crocheting scarves and funky slippers covered in impractical pom poms.

However, it failed to dull her cheeky sense of humour.

In between chemotherapy and radiation appointments, the two of us would often shuffle down the hospital corridor, with her IV drip machine trailing behind. Hand clasped in mine, she’d ask about my work, friends and university.

“And rabbit, how is the rabbit going?” she’d say, waiting for me to turn my head so she could deliver an exaggerated cinematic wink.

When she died, she left me beautifully handwritten letters, journals from her childhood in Italy, her engagement ring and, of course, the rabbit.

It’s been nearly five years and I can’t bring myself to throw it away. Don’t get me wrong, I still think it’s freakishly hideous, borderline ghastly.

I also rarely use cash or coins, so I don’t need a money box. There is no practical or aesthetic reason for me to keep it. And yet, the rabbit has survived numerous spring clean-outs and charity runs, as well as a recent interstate move from Brisbane to Melbourne to work for this masthead.

I’m not sure why I can’t give it away. Part of me worries the cotton-tailed demon might haunt me if I try to part with it. But mostly, I think the rabbit reminds me of Nonna, her twinkling eyes and cheeky grin. Her firm and unfailing belief that you shouldn’t take yourself or anything in life too seriously.

So for now, the rabbit remains – inside my cupboard, perched on the third shelf and tucked between my books and winter coats. But it’s still facing backwards so that I don’t have to see its face.

Hannah Kennelly is a trainee reporter at The Age.

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