The Gypsy

There was a homeless lady, one afternoon, outside the hospital. Was she homeless? I don’t know. She had a ladened shopping cart, which, on TV, is kind of a signature. We were inside, waiting for an Uber. She was outside, in chiaroscuro relief. Dressed in bright, multilayered, mismatched florals and brocades, she reminded me of a gypsy. There are still gypsy caravans in France. Are there gypsies in America? She wore boots and long strings of beaded jewelry. They would have had to have been glass, I supposed, but tinseled with the glitter of those pop spangles, she looked, en bloc, the richest and the poorest of us. She wasn’t young and she wasn’t old. She sat alone, on a short retaining wall, her cart within guarded reach. I noticed her because every time I glanced over, she was watching me with the dark unblinking eyes of a bird. She had an easy confidence, in the wild, sitting safe and protected by her clam, obstinate shell of boredom. What must I look like to her - with her tangled hair and unwashed face? Me in my permanent pressed hospital wear, diminished by over-washing. A doll behind glass, whose whole life is patterned by plans? Our Uber pulled up, the number matched and as Lisa opened the car door, I gathered my things and looked back but the gypsy lady was gone, leaving a blank space. . . chiaroscuro = an art style using strong contrasts between light and dark en bloc = at once, both