Mother's Song

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

Guard your heart, my daughter, my love. Bolt the lock when passions roar. Nightly my mother’s song swirled around me like hearth shadows. When longing comes knocking, don’t open the door.

Upon my reaching womanhood, my mother explained the rule. I could befriend, flirt, kiss, enchant, embrace. But never—never—open my heart.

“Why?” I asked at last. “Why does my heart need guarding? Surely my heart could defeat all comers."

"You say more than you know,” answered my mother, with a look that was both blaze and shadow.

Next morning I awoke to a cold hearth, and an empty house. My mother had well prepared me for self-reliance. But not for loneliness.

One winter night, haunted by snow flurries, I sat listless by my fire. Suddenly a wild frigid wind crashed through my cottage. A man stumbled in, and fell senseless.

He was blackened with frostbite, barely breathing, but with my mother’s healing lore I restored him. And fell in love.

Still, I guarded my heart, giving no sign. I heeded the rule.

One moonlit night he grasped my hands. “With all my heart, I am yours!”

Bolt the lock.

“Stop feigning this coldness, my love. Please."

I was melting in his gaze.

Don’t open the door...

My mother’s song was drowned by a roar of passion. I flung wide my heart. Our unfettered souls flowed together white-hot.

My beloved’s eyes blazed with joy. Then—with agony. Shock. Terror.

Then nothing.

His charred remains crumbled in my arms. Flakes of ash drifted upward.

Suddenly I understood: The rule was not meant to protect me.

***

My daughter, my love, I crooned over my infant, whose eyes glinted like her father’s in the firelight. Never open the door.