As a virgin-and especially since her name was Brighid-she was to gather the family’s rushes for Imbolc, blessed Saint Brighid’s special day. Brighid walked down the lane that came up to the door and set across the field to the edge of the lake where the rushes grew tall. The day was mild and sunny, as if nature itself shared her joy. She placed more peat on the fire-the hearth fire must stay lit until after May Day-then took off her apron, put on her cloak and scarf, and set out. Brighid cleared the table, made quick work of the dishes. The midwife had told her she might have confusing feelings or want to cry more now that she was a woman.
But Brighid had tried to be a good daughter, one her mother would have been happy to claim had she lived. She barely remembered her mother, as she’d died, weakened by famine, when Brighid was only three. As she watched him go, Brighid felt a pricking behind her eyes, but refused to cry.
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