Gypsy

You come from a family of boys. I come from no family at all. My great-grandmother was born with holes in her earlobes. Romany. Gypsy. A caravan child. I remember my childhood of Russian Caravan Tea, all lapsang souchong-y. You think Gypsy means Gypsy Rose Lee and regale me with stories of her speaking at Union Meetings. I wait for the striptease. We run away to Coney Island. I thought it would be all yellow neon ice-cream cones before we take the D train to Brooklyn. But my dreams short circuit. There is no Copacabana or Tropicana. No birthday cakes like the ones I dreamt about in the Women’s Weekly cookbook. Coney Island is Nathan’s Famous Hotdogs not Rapunzel’s tower made of inverted cones covered in cream. You take me to the boardwalk but never under it. I take you to the sideshow where the bearded lady reads your tea leaves and points out the long plait curling itself around the rim of your cup.

Cassandra Atherton