My Sophie cajoled me into living a gypsy life. We have little. A wooden trunk holds velvet dresses covered with gold sequins and tiny brass bells, while a small, cedar-scented draw contains tattered pants and two neatly folded shirts. Nights I play guitar as Sophie, red hair glistening in the firelight, keeps rhythm with black castanets. Days Sophie tells fortunes in exchange for food. Eggs, a dozen carrots, deer liver, cow bones. She realizes good fortunes bring better food but never lies. Tonight our caravan burst into flames. Perhaps Andrzej was more upset with his future than we imagined.
Up From the Ashes 