The garbage-bag gypsy is getting ready
for our evening out,
poking around behind a faux wall
that hides her wardrobe.
She peers around the corner,
catches my eye.
Don’t peek while I change.
She winks.
I pick up some photos from her antique dresser,
photos of children,
old photos,
easily a hundred years old,
probably more.
Aged.
While the gypsy changes into her avant-garde costume,
I study the photo of one infant girl in particular.
I’m suddenly overcome with melancholy,
unexpected under the circumstances,
since we’re about to leave for a party.
I don’t want to ruin the evening.
It’s just that my onset of sadness is so…
so heavy.
The gypsy presses her body against me,
an arm wrapped around my chest,
looking over my shoulder.
That little girl in the photo is dead.
I tremble.
Dead?
This is how some people in the nineteenth century
honoured their loved ones.
They dressed their dead children up
in suits and dresses
and had photos taken of them,
sometimes with their parents,
sometimes without.
I flip through the photos,
dozens of them.
All children.
All so very young.
All dead.
The gypsy says:
They ground me,
remind me of the preciousness of life,
the vulnerability of being human.
I keep these photos to honour these children,
so that the memory of their existence
will never be lost.