Gypsy

She wasn't quite sure when it had happened. 1

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 {i}her{/i} 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.2

When did 'old' happen? 3

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.4

She considered again. Romania was changing too fast for her understanding. Music tinkled out of mini ear-pieces (which lead 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; {i}her{/i} road - a country's blood and arteries... too fast; no horses allowed on the new highways.5

Was there a place for her any more?6

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 {i}was{/i} good; she just wasn't sure when it had found time to happen.7

(299 words)