They say I had a glass casket. That I was surrounded by flowers, a wonder of the woods.
But the truth is far simpler than that.
After all, they were woodsmen, miners, the seven who cared for me. Men short in stature and in funds. Where would they have found the glass to make it, the gold to bind me?
Instead they made me a bed from what they knew. Timber, gift from the forest that sheltered us, carved with their axes, shaped with love. And they laid me there, sheltered by branches, leaves my coverlet, flowers my crown.
I was a princess. My rescuer, a prince. But I’d been saved long before he came along, with his lips red as the apple that had laid me low.
And so my bed of wood remains, a memorial to love and friendship.
To the seven.