They always say we can’t stay rooted, that our blood craves travel.
Last night our three weeks here were gone; eviction-note, a slap in the face:
“Out by dawn” ,
as if we didn’t know. We always know in advance.
Kissed by rime this meadow; another place we’d never call our home, but it was a place where I yearned to settle.
When our carts moved slowly through the village I saw the curtains in your window move. White — your hand unclaimed by gold.
Yet a shard of heart remaining, as in every piece of land where Romani are guests
To me this place reminded me of breaking a camp early in the morning. I heard a story in the radio recently about Romani people and how they have and are being treated, and how the myths about their vagrancy has been used against them. Here in Sweden for instance they were not allowed to stay more than three weeks at one place. Whenever I hear a romantic gypsy song I start to think about how it would feels having to leave a place every three weeks. For some reason they have long seemed a group of people where racism is still alive and accepted.
Friday Fictioneers is a group of people who weekly write stories in 100 words to the same picture under the management of Rochelle Wissoff-Fields. Every week about 100 stories are being written on the same subject. I try to visit as many as I can, but sometimes it takes a little time for me to return.