The room is quiet....the occasional sound of the Cuckoo's Nest behind the door....on the other side...and the whispering on the inside. Mama speaks in another tongue, endless sentences macrame~ed together by her little fingers flying, kneading, pointing, reaching, touching ours....and we lean closer and listen.....every now and then gathering familiar words like heart shaped rocks, clinging to them like sentimental souvenirs.
She cries. Frets. And talks to faces only she can see, spirits in the corners...And we shoo them like dusty cobwebs, because she's not ready, and they're dancing in our dirty laundry, stirring up too many memories or make~believes or gonna~be's. They can join the parade later, but not today....
Today we're butterflies....
and we're gonna rest. Flutter our wings every now and then, just a teensy tiny bit, and snuggle in a little closer....
When she's ready to fly....
She won't even need these silly ole wings....
She'll be Gypsy free.....
