There on that small island I wove day in and day out. Winds moved from each direction. The long winter seemed to start in September with the last of the tourists leaving. Excitement leaving with them, as the island was left to itself and winter's torment and talk.
There I was perched by the fire, keeping warm over the hot coals......Anticipation was my companion as well. I began to know the cycle of the seasons and looked forward to the events that brought companionship and fun. I looked up into the roof of my thatched cottage to see the crosses made from rushes that the old folks had made... They believed that these protected the house from fire.
And as I wove on Saint Bridget's day I waited for the knock on the door that would bring the little girls dressed up as Bridget into the enclave of my hearth and temporary home.
The timid knock came and I opened the heavy wooden door. There stood the daughters of the nurse from the next village over. Decked out in lace curtains, and a bit of finery they came in and sang me a song. I think I gave them cookies or apples or something sweet. I can't remember... but I do remember how they sweetened the day for me. They often stayed a while and we would draw together....little did I know that I would be among so many children in the years to come.
Sweetly they left and sweetly I waved good bye. Sad to see them go as I turned back to the inner sanctum of my stone cottage.
Later in the evening I looked up at the Saint Bridget's crosses...wondering who had made them and when...and if small girls visited those makers of crosses and sweetened their day as well.
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