I flip between my fingers a pair of interlocking angel wings. Suspended in perfect harmony on a silver chain. I fancy that I can see them flutter, I swear that my finger prints are tattooed onto that metallic surface. That somehow living cells have latched itself to lifeless, gilded metal. 

I never take it off.
So it never feels cold to me.

My angel wings were given to me by my Gypsy Grandmother, and right now, at my most vulnerable, I long for those violet eyes. 
I long for the musty smell of incense, the jangle of bangles piled high and the rattle of beads. But most of all, I wish for her guidance. 

So I rub the angel wings talisman, hoping she will materialise before me, like a genie from a lamp - stranger things have happened.   

The phone rings…

“Un Poco…you called?”

I will never understand how that Witch of a Woman does it.  

……………………………….

Sat for far, far too long,
listening to caged birds songs
Up in her lofty tower. 
Rapunzel would be green with envy,
ripping her hair out in a jealous frenzy. 
She takes captivity,
and turns it into a festivity. 
A Señorita of Solitude. 
A Diva in Distraction.
Of course - It’s a dirty little lie.
In the midnight hours, 
she will ceaselessly shuffle tarot cards.
Living in a made up reality, 
where she is not scarred.
and love had not marred,
her fragile sense of worth. 
So she dons a merry, mask of mirth.
And carries on with her everyday.
Only Princesses have the privilege,
to fritter time away.  

………………………………..

My Gypsy Grandmother leans over, her exotic scent filling my nostrils. She whispers in my ear:

“You remind me of the mermaid that wished herself to wood, my love.”

“Grandmother, I don’t understa -“

“You forget too easily, you loved that story as a child.” 

I let the cushioned chair engulf me as I collapse into it, smiling, knowing I’m in for a treat. She returns the smile and begins her tale:

“There was once a mermaid, with chestnut hair that gleamed like a conker. With eyes the colour of amethysts. She was so full of sorrow that she wished herself to become wood. Triton, being both merciful and great granted her this wish.”

“Why was she so sad?”

“Well Un Poco, why does anyone wish themselves to be wood, to be cold as stone? - Love, that’s why.”

I nod her on, desperate to hear the rest of this familiar fable.      

.

.

Link to part 2: http://mobbleberry.tumblr.com/post/14729772420/the-mermaid-that-wished-herself-to-wood-part-2-of-2

…………………………………………….

Link to part 1: http://mobbleberry.tumblr.com/post/14729369044/the-mermaid-that-wished-herself-to-wood-part-1-of-2

.

.

My Gypsy Grandmother nods in approval, and continues:

“She would look up from the waves, when the moon veiled her from sight, and watch a young sailor. She saw him as different, with one eye always on the horizon. Well, Un Poco, one day she plucked up the courage to speak to him. She scrambled up the ship, her fin flapping uncontrollably, and positioned herself on the prow, at the very tip.

But as her sailor approached her, she froze in utter paralysing fear. He came up close to her porcelain skin, and inspected her. She did not blink. He Sighed, at the craftsmanship of the carpenter. Then turned his back on her.”

“Her despair was deep. The realisation hit her like a tsunami of disappointment. They would never be together, he could not believe in her even when they were only inches apart. She was but a statue, a thing to be admired. So she wished herself to wood.” 

I smile at my Gypsy Grandmother: “I remember now…” 

“Ah, yes, but do you remember meeting her Un Poco?” 

This flummoxes me, she’s talking in riddles. Yet she continues: 

“I took you to Portsmouth, when you were very small, to look at the ships and you spotted her sitting on one of them. You wanted to have a conversation with her. You complimented her on her hair and she asked you -“ 

“What is it like to have feet!?” I reply, practically jumping out of my seat. Recalling the whole thing. 

“And my darling girl, what did you tell her?

“Uncomfortable - feet are uncomfortable.”

We both laugh at the memory. And for that moment, I no longer remind her of the mermaid that wished herself to wood.  

…………………………………………………

At the end of the garden there is an ancient wishing well. No one knows how long its been there, tapping into the underground tributaries. No one knows why it’s even at the end of our garden.

       My Gypsy Grandmother told me once that a greedy man lived here, that he would tax villagers for the use of his well. Weighing up water to gold.

      One day, she held my hand and led me down the garden. She pried away my Father’s make-shift grid. Discarding its safety and revealing the well.  

      “Sit on the edge.” She ordered, all the time clasping my shoulder tightly. Then, she magicked up a foreign coin, with marks and ridges alien to my child’s mind. She answered my questioning eyes: “Never use common coins, a wish is not a common thing. It must be cast off with something as unique as the wish itself.” 

(tbc) 

………………………………………………………..

Link to part 1: http://mobbleberry.tumblr.com/post/14522626900/wishing-well

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I dangled my patent t-barred toes on the edge; dancing around a ring of darkness. It reminded me of hundreds of black hula-hoops stacked up high, ready for me to slide down. 

    “Make a wish.” Her whisper tickling my little ear. The coin zigzags like a ball in a pinball machine, bouncing wildly off the walls. 

     Ploop. 

.      .       .       .         .              .               .                  .                       .    

Today, I pulled back the vines and ivy growing on the rotting, wooden guard. It crumbled away in my hands, splintering at the slightest touch. Before me is the black hole of years ago, shadows spilling up into the air. 

      The well is still as deep. 

      Still as never-ending. 

  Time hasn’t eroded it’s depth.

   Only more moss clings to it,

    making it harder to see,

    where the real edge is.

   I manoeuvre myself on the brink, 

   I pull out a foreign coin. 

  And I wish, with everything I have.

     Opening my fingers I -

                   d

                   r

                  o

                  p

                           i

                           t

…………………………

Ploop. My wish lies at the bottom of our well, I hope it comes true.

…………………………………..

Back home in the wilderness, she sits with her Gypsy Grandmother. Taking comfort in her mysticism, her talk of fate and fortunes found. The girl pipes up: 

“What if I rejected my fate? What if I pushed it away with both hands?”

The Señorita sits back, blowing on her tea, the steam billowing skywards. The pause drags on, and the girl is convinced that her Grandmother never even heard her. 

Sip.

“Un Poco, it will swing back, and hit you like a boomerang.”

Sip.

“But what if -“

The Gypsy Grandmother is blunt. Prodding a tanned, weathered finger on her Granddaughter’s forehead.

“Who ever he is, what ever he has done, if he is not your fate Un Poco, then you must let it go -“

She interrupts her elder: “How did you know?”

Sip. She will not reveal her magic.

Her opal encrusted fingers come up to brush away a curl from her Un Poco’s face.

“Heartbreak is a dangerous thing, don’t let it swallow you up.”

The girl sits in silence contemplating the wise Witch before her. She thanks ‘the fates that be’ for such a woman.   

…………………………………………

Right now there’s nothing I want more,

than to see your smile as I walk through the front door. 

To hug you, hold on for dear life. Let that familiar smell fill me up. 

For you to sigh: “What’s all this then…?” make some tea,

put it in my favourite comedy cup.

I’m a Homebird.

You stroke my hair, dividing the curls you gave me between your fingers. 

Your voice is the most comforting thing I’ve ever heard. 

………………………………………………

Here’s something I never told you about me, 

Something I didn’t want you to imagine, but to see. 

My little secret I kept from you, it’s Salsa. 

Not the dip but the dance. 

Last night, I went to the Salsa club for the first time

since you’ve been gone. 

I danced until dawn. 

I put on the dress I never showed you, 

the one that spirals up to my waist when I spin. 

It’s red - of course. 

For the first time, I smiled with ease. 

Swallowed up by the snap of the snare drum, 

the role of the passionate tease. 

Spinning double time in the arms of a stranger,

combining El Dos salsa steps with Mambo movements. 

The rhythm permeating my heart, 

stamping out the gloom.

My Spanish Gypsy Grandmother was right,

some things can’t be said, only expressed.

So I did - with all the heat of my blood,

and a crowded room.   

…………………………………………………