Gypsy

She wasn't quite sure when it had happened.

There had been Mama, some church school, a life traveling in a painted caravan, endless fairgrounds blurred into one, and a husband too, somewhere along the journey. Then her days had turned her into the Mama; taking the children to passing village schools, as the faded paint on the caravan flecked in the salty breeze of the coast roads.

When did 'old' happen?

Now a great-grandmother, grand-aunt, grand-gypsy queen of Romania. Time was cruel, but these days the length seemed even crueler. She stood, dressed in her favorite Madonna blue; at 4'9" tall, her frame fitted her caravan bunk just-so. Everything about her caravan felt like it fit 'just right'. Not to the grandchildren, though, "Come live in the city; we'll take care of you now, Nana!" No, thank you! She was born in a caravan, lived in a caravan, and she was quite happy to spend her remaining days on God's planet in one. Being patted on the head by a giant of a boy with the soft palms of office work would not be an option.

She considered again. Romania was changing too fast for her understanding. Music tinkled out of mini ear-pieces, which led to who knew where, girls dressed like boys and boys dressed like girls. Fast food? Why was that? Why did it have to rush? And the Road--her road--a country's blood and arteries... too fast; no horses allowed on the new highways.

Was there a place for her any more?

She clambered into the bunk, which still fit 'just right', and nestled under the quilt her mother had made, and her mother before that. Life was good; she just wasn't sure when it had found time to happen.

(299 words)