A GIFT

Long ago, when a princess was born, queens would summon fairies to bless the child. By this time, the fairies had vanished, and one queen took it upon herself to give the gifts in their place.

Under a silver moon, she dressed her newborn in a white gown and carried her deep into the forest, along a mossy path where shadows clung to the trees. The wind stirred the pines, whispering as if warning her.  On and on she walked until she reached a quiet glen. There, on a bed of pine needles, she laid the baby and lit a single candle, its flame trembling in the night.

With her head bowed, she spoke her wishes, each word a careful spell:

“My daughter, I wish for you a small voice, that no one may hear enough to wound you with their judgment.

I wish for you never to be remarkable, that envy and jealousy may never darken your door.

And I wish for you only modest dreams, that the sharp sting of failure may never reach your heart.”

She bent low and kissed her daughter’s forehead. The child slept, unknowing, as the candle flame flickered and died. The queen lingered, sensing the weight of her own fears flowing into the night, and knew she had cloaked her daughter in the only protection she had ever known: a shield against a world that might hurt her.