Listen here, little sparrow.
Come sit by my crooked stove,
and stop staring at the ashes
as though they might arrange themselves
into a different past.
The fire has no such magic.
I know what sits in your heart tonight.
It is not the sharp grief
of being wounded.
It is the heavier grief
of discovering
you have wounded another.
Ah.
That one cuts to the bone.
Especially when the wound
was carved with love.
When I was young—
yes, even Baba Yaga was young once,
though the ravens laugh when I say it—
I believed truth was always a gift.
If a thing was true,
it should be spoken.
If a thing hurt,
it should be shared.
If a heart was breaking,
surely those who loved you
should help carry the pieces.
So I filled my basket with sorrows.
I carried tales of lonely roads,
of cruel winters,
of wolves that circled too close.
And when my arms grew tired,
I handed the basket
to the nearest child.
Not because I wished them harm.
Not because I was wicked.
Not because I loved them too little.
Because I loved them so much
that I forgot
how small their shoulders were.
Children are strange creatures.
They will carry burdens
you never asked them to carry.
They will gather your tears
like precious stones.
They will tuck your worries
into their pockets.
They will stand in doorways
watching storms
you thought they could not see.
And all the while
they are growing.
Growing around the weight.
Growing around the worry.
Growing around the fear.
Until one day
they become adults
and discover the burden basket
still hanging from their backs.
Then comes the hardest day.
The day the child turns around
and says:
“Mother, this was too heavy.”
And suddenly,
the old woman sees.
The basket.
The stones.
The straps.
The ache.
Many mothers run from this moment.
Many fathers do too.
They stomp their feet.
They blame the weather.
They blame the wolves.
They blame the road.
They shout:
“I did my best!”
As though effort alone
could make a burden light.
But the wise ones—
the brave ones—
sit down beside the basket.
They touch the worn leather.
They see the grooves it left
upon the child’s shoulders.
And they whisper:
“I didn’t know.”
“If I had known,
I would have carried it myself.”
Now listen carefully,
little sparrow.
This is the part
the forest never tells.
Regret is not a time machine.
No amount of wishing
can make yesterday unlived.
No tears can unring a bell.
No apology can transform
an old wound
into a wound that never happened.
That is not the work.
The work is different.
The work is to become
the sort of person
who no longer hands children
the burden basket.
The work is to set it down.
The work is to learn
which grief belongs to you.
The work is to carry
your own sorrow
with stronger arms.
And what of the child?
Ah.
The child has their own road now.
You cannot walk it for them.
You cannot heal them
by force.
You cannot love them
backward through time.
You can only stand
at the edge of the forest
with a lantern in your hand,
and when they look your way,
let them see
that the basket is gone.
So stop asking the ashes
to become a different fire.
Stop asking yesterday
to become a different story.
The lesson has already arrived.
The old spell is already broken.
And somewhere beyond the trees,
the child you love
is still walking.
Not away.
Just onward.
As all children must.
And if the forest is kind,
and if patience is patient,
and if love remains love,
perhaps one day
they will sit beside your stove again.
Not because the wound vanished.
But because they finally saw
that you learned
to carry your own basket.
— Baba Yaga 🖤🔥🦉🌲
Baba Yaga The Wise 
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