I am a Gipsy, 57 years old. I live because of Emfie - I feel the air like silk, because of her. I am waiting for her on the bench in the morning, to see her passing by. She is 17. To us, the Gipsies, this is the age limit for marriage. Emfie must give birth to children yet. This thought drives me mad - the air begins to cut like silk, unravels into silk threads. These threads pierce me. It is painful, very painful - the threads are like snapping animals, which sink their teeth in my old body. Sharp silky teeth...
Emfie passes by. Her smooth skin smells of an orchard. Smells of fruit. Smells of many fruits, spread over the net of a silk web, which changes its colours.
I arrive again at the place. The place, from where I walked into the other side ... I lifted up the veil of prohibition and threw dust over Emfie. Once forever, I ended all speculations. The silky threads unraveled - again became a cloth - and tore. I tied them in knots, I stole them from the old Gipsy seamstress, I cut them into little ribbons, I cut triangular pieces from the silky threads, then, squares. I painted the earth. The silk watched me with bare teeth; I was stealing something, which was rightly hers, her threads. And finally I felt, that something passed away, I drowned in the silk like drowning? in cotton. I jumped from my place. Only Emfie was capable of transforming the threads into silk cloth. The old seamstress had died long ago. I touched Emfie’s hand. She didn’t resist and seamed the most beautiful silk quilt. She stuck her eyes into me and didn’t wish to run away. Silk is soft and smooth - like the wife of a Gypsy.
© Diana Ivanova