|Painting by WhitSpeaks available on Etsy|
The eldest girls came traipsing up the road with empty bags slung over their shoulders and their laughter on the wind. The eldest was industrious and sewed skirts of many hues from the gauzy floating fabric one can only buy in markets in countries like this, and her younger sister, the artist at large, threaded beads and shells and bits of sea glass across them like moving paintings, and they always sold out when they went to the market on a sunny day with a bag full of their skirts.
In my gypsy kitchen there was a small table, as red as the reddest sunset, a slab cut from the burl of a thousand year old tree and polished until it shone like glass. At night these almost-grown children slept in hammocks on the porches and in the open spaces, lulled to sleep to the tunes of the village below and the surf on the rocks, the old brass bells foraged from ruins and clinking glass of lobster trap floats we'd strung up everywhere. They'd learned their math in the village markets and eaten only what grew in the spaces around this house and hill. We did almost nothing on paper anymore, except to read great books and stories you could get lost for days wandering in.
I stood in the dark, listening to the sounds of the little gypsy house, and thinking about all these things, how different they were from any dream I might have dreamed for them long ago in a straight-backed yellow farmhouse in a very American rural field.
And somehow, when I woke up, I knew that I had dreamed of heaven.