* Image – Gypsy by Gryffindork at DeviantArt.
When my cousins and sisters and I were kids we used to pretend to be gypsies.
We loved the pretty scarves, the golden earrings, the jingly bracelets and the long, colourful beads.
It seemed so exotic, so other-worldly, so empowering to be a gypsy. To dance under white clouds as if the dance was the only thing that mattered.
To have people cross your palms with silver and tell them the story of their fate.
When we were gypsies we dreamed of tall, dark handsome strangers and travelling to faraway places in our magical caravans.
We dreamed of fire and lust and passion before we even knew what they were.
We dreamed of a soaring kind of joy.
We dreamed of life.
‘Don’t talk to the gypsies,’ said my grandmother who avoided buying their boxes of hand-carved clothespegs and exquisitely-stitched handkerchiefs at all costs.
‘They’ll rob you blind.’
We ignored her, dreaming of brown-eyed boys playing guitar under the moonlight.
Believing that it might just be possible that the words in books could come to life.
Sometimes I think of those gypsies dancing wildly on hilltops; our skirts constructed from old tablecloths and curtains swirling at our feet.
I think of those gypsies lost for the most part in time but with a little, just a little bit remaining in our grown up hearts.
I think of the little parts of the gypsies that remain and know that it is possible that some dreams stay with us for good.