Momma said that we weren’t to go see the folk singer. Said all those miles he’s walked from town to town had soured him. Turned him into something other than a man. That’s why he’d never dare cross the church’s threshold. Said those who listened to him stopped caring about their families and fields. Would rather do nothing but drink and sing all day.
We weren’t supposed to, but I went. The singer sat on the inn’s front steps and sang all night. He had the whole town entranced. But I knew he loved me best.
Something in his eyes.