Paralysis

Her earrings don't match; her skirt is too long or too short; her lamps sit broken for weeks so she lights candles; she cuts the blossoms to see the lush green leaves; she'll be leaving soon anyway; she's always leaving.

And in this gypsy life, she packs up and moves on, carrying her trinkets and treasures, her stolen booty, her small reserves. And at the end of the trail, she parks her wagon, merely exchanging ground. Everything the same. What looks like the unencumbered life of adventure is a body drowning and a paralyzed heart.

A childhood tragedy rendered her paralyzed. Surely that is why. She was thrown from a horse and broke her back; she leaned from a window and a bounce in the road sent her hurtling beneath the wagon, the wheels snapping her vertebrae; another gypsy intruder carved out her heart and packed it in concrete or dug it out and fed it to the dogs replacing it with a simple clock. She doesn't really remember anymore and creates stories to entertain her callers.

She doesn't cry alone at night; she's not even sad. Once in a blue moon, Missing slips into the space beside her. Missing. Only missing. It's as close as she gets to loving. Missing is the only fishhook in her heart. She avoids having. She won't miss you when you are gone. Except when the late day sun reaches across the floor, the losing light. That's the time to move on.