Caged

The gypsy's mother most likely has locked-in syndrome. The lights are on and someone's home, but not. It is more imprisonment. The stuff of penny-dreadfuls and nightmares. Ensnared in a breathing cage of flesh, bone, and sinew. It is rare as hen's teeth to walk away from something like this, and whether living or dying is preferable is a matter of aspect.

The gypsy tells of how her family does not look for paperwork stating what her mother's wishes were one way or the other. She speaks of her father's blinding rage, how he thinks some fairy-story deity will heal his wife. Blood drama; that, which is not as easy to walk away from because it involves blood, and blood is a funny fucking thing. I know this; not as well as some, but better than most.

Perhaps telling her what will happen will happen is a little caviler, but I did abstain from throwing in one of my favorite lyrical mantras of Roll the Bones. Besides, I have neither the gall, or outright idiocy to pretend to be psychic. That's just not my way. Be that as it may, what is sometimes called a gut feeling, but I've sometimes called the whisper in my ghost, is not positive on this matter.

There is a distinct possibility she'll be kiting to her homeland much sooner than the annual trip to visit family and renew her work visa. I offer my condolences and counsel, though I sometimes fear any conversation we have on the subject might end up being monopolized by my own emotional baggage over the loss of a parent. Still, just as there's a chance she might be returning to her homeland much sooner than usual, I suspect there's a chance I might be venturing down below to get drunk with her whilst we mourn the loss of our mothers. Although, I doubt anyone can even guess how badly I want to be wrong about that.