“Don’t look at that lady! She is a gypsy.”
Now at seven years old, the word gypsy is foreign to me. And telling me not to look at her, made me want to look even more. With every head bowed and every eye closed, this was my big chance, to stare for one good minute and wonder why no one liked her. She came to church every Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday night. She sat near the front and never opened the hymnal. She knew the songs by heart. And she always smiled…at me…at my parents…at everyone around her.
Her hair was brown and hung in soft curls to the mid part of her back. Her earrings were long and dangled to her shoulders. Her skirt was full and fell just past her knees and swirled around her as she walked.
She was always alone. I never saw anyone shake her hand or speak. But still she smiled. In my secret moments of staring, I saw her look back at me. Her eyes twinkled with kindness and her smile made me think I was special. “Gypsy” was someone I liked. And someone I would never forget.
She had joy.
1 comment:
this is such a great post!
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