Towering

every night for weeks after, I plugged them in and watched them blink, on and off, off and on. It made me happy to watch them, and peaceful, like I was part of the wide world.
    But, one day, I realized that Mama had brought me the lights because she was never going to take me out to see the real ones.
    That night, I took them down and hid them away, in the same box where I had stored my paper. When Mama came and asked where they’d gone, I said they were broken.
    “I’ll bring you a new string,” she said.
    “It’s okay,” I told her. “I’ve looked at them enough.”
    But that was how I knew it was winter, even before the snow began piling on my windowsill. And, when the snow melts, it is spring and the flowers bloom below.
    But now, it had only been winter a short time, and the snow was melting. I opened my window. It was a long way down, too long to see much other than the activities of birds and the occasional deer. Still, I wanted to leave the window open, to smell the world outside. I would play my harp and sing my songs, and the animals, at least, would hear me.
    I began to do this. I sang the saddest song I knew, about a girl in love with a poor boy but unable to marry him. Mama taught it to me. She said it was from Scotland, and I loved it because it was from so far away.
    I know where I’m going;
    And I know who’s going with me.
    I know who I love;
    But the dear knows who I’ll marry.
    As I sang, I had once again that strange feeling, the feeling of being listened to, not by birds or squirrels or even deer, but by some sentient, thinking being. I rushed to the window to look.
    I saw something, or someone, moving in the distance. Probably, it was just a bear or a mountain lion. Though they were rare, I had seen all sorts of animals in the wood.
    I went back to singing. It was silly to hope for what could not happen.
    I have stockings of silk;
    And shoes of fine green leather;
    Combs to buckle my hair;
    And a ring for every finger.
    Just then, I remembered that Mama had given me these special glasses, which enabled me to see birds and other creatures, very far away. I grabbed them from my table. It was probably merely an animal. A bear. Or a mountain lion. Nothing to get excited about.
    Except it wasn’t. It wasn’t a bear. Bears wear coats of brown or black. This creature wore one of blue. It was clearly a human being. Still, I could see nothing more, not even if it was a man or a woman. It could just be Mama.
    But it was not Mama. Mama’s coat was gray, and she never walked in the woods. No, this was someone else, someone I had never seen before. It was walking closer to me, struggling where there was no path, holding on to trees to keep its balance, but still coming closer. I could not see the face. Perhaps it was the man I had dreamed of.
    Mama would say otherwise. She would say he was coming to murder me, or to steal me away. And suddenly, I was very afraid. What if Mama was right, and it was someone who wished me harm? What if the whole world wished me harm and only this tower could protect me, this tower which seemed suddenly vulnerable? After all, Mama had kept me here all these years. If there was nothing to fear, it would mean she was quite mad.
    And yet, I had dreamed of this day, of someone other than Mama coming here, to find me, perhaps to rescue me.
    I looked, again, through the glasses. The person was still far away, at the edge of the frozen lake. I could see nothing but the coat. I could not see that it was a man, much less the man of my dreams.
    I shut the window and went back to my harp.
    Featherbeds are soft;
    And painted rooms are bonny;
    But I would leave them all;
    To go with my love, Johnny.
    As I played, I closed my eyes and tried to picture his face. It was silly, of course, for it was merely a dream, a figment of my imagination. My imagination had made him perfect, gifting him with every wonderful attribute of the men in my books, the darkest hair, the greenest eyes, the strongest chin, the broadest shoulders, until he was Arthur and Lancelot, Robin Hood and Perseus all rolled into one, then gifted with the intellect of Rochester and the wealth of Darcy. No man could match up, surely not an ordinary youth with ordinary blemishes.
    And yet, I ran to the window to look again, to see if he did. I could not tell yet. But now, at least, I was certain it was a man. The shoulders were too broad, the walk too bold to be a woman. That it was a man was wonderful, yet scary,