My name is Whimsy. Yes, I know what you’re thinking so go ahead and have a good laugh.
My mother is a gypsy at heart with wanderlust for blood. She’d get a whim (hence my name—inherited, too),
pack us up and be on the road at dawn, no destination in mind. Where the day takes us, she always told me.
Like a butterfly searching for the sweetest nectar, flitting from flower to flower until she found the right one, then we’d stop wherever we were at the end of the day and that would be our home for a little while—a month, six, maybe even a year. Then she’d be off again.
I never knew who my father was. I never gave it too much thought, wasn’t interested really, so enamored I was with my gypsy mother and our fantastic nomadic life. I saw more in a year than most people see in their lifetime.
I was mostly homeschooled. I didn’t have the interaction with other kids on a daily basis that most kids do. We’d go to a playground or a park. Mama would sit and watch me as I played with other children. It was during this time that I became aware of things that made me different.
I met a girl about my age in one of the parks we went to. I liked her very much and when Mama called that it was time to go, I gave her a hug and trembled at the things I saw when my fingertips touched her flesh. I lost my breath as a red car came barreling out of no-where, struck my new friend and sent her flying through the air. I held on tight as my vision dimmed and I grew weak with fear. When I let her go, I gave her a watery smile and told her to be sure to look both ways anytime she crossed the street. She looked at me strange as she stepped back and walked away.
I never knew what happened to her. I never saw her again as the wanderlust struck Mama and we were off at dawn the very next day.
As we drove down curvy roads—we never drove the main highways or interstates—I told Mama what had happened to me. She just smiled and told me I had “the gift.” I was frightened beyond reason to ask her exactly what my gift was. I didn’t want it. It scared me right down to my toes. She called me “fae,” explained that I was descended from a line of fairies, mythical, ethereal beings who had magical powers. Our lineage was considered light fae.
On and on she went till I literally wanted to scream. I thought dear old mom was wigging out, losing touch with reality or any number of phrases that would capture what I really thought. I couldn’t tell her to shut up, of course, that would have been too rude.
Finally, she ran down and I sent up a thank you prayer to whatever god was responsible. At the end of the day, weary and glad to put a stop to all the endless chatter, we took a room for the night. Next day Mama planned to look around to find us a permanent (as per-manent as we ever got) home for awhile.
Our home for the next stretch of time, before the wanderlust struck again, was a wonderful little white house with a picket fence. The kind you see in Norman Rockwell paintings. I had a glorious backyard that I loved. Mama planted a gazillion varieties of flowers to add to the already flourishing morning glories, jasmine and honeysuckle, Black-eyed Susans, daisies, dahlias and more that I can’t ever remember the names.
It always puzzled me where she got the money to pay for all she bought. She was a lavish spender and I wanted for nothing. I conjured up all kinds of scenarios from her selling her body to support us, to selling drugs to robbing banks. Of course, none of the above was true I found out later in life.
We’d been living at this place for about six months now. I was so excited that we’d made it beyond the three month mark. That was usually the extent of our stay in one place. I was playing in the backyard, my imagination knew no bounds. I was a princess waiting for a knight in shining armor to streak across the green to rescue me. What I came across was a bird lying in the grass. So overwhelmed by the stillness, I gathered the small form into my palm and cried. Words I did not know, in the form of song, sprang from my throat. It was a haunting, mournful strain that pulled on my heart-strings with a melodic ethereal quality I didn’t know I possessed. As I sang, I stroked the motionless body, from the rounded small head, down the wing, onto the chest and back again. I stroked. I sang. Stroked. Sang. Stroked and sang. With each slide of my fingertips, I put all my heart and soul in the music I felt pouring out of me. Head. Wing. Chest. I thought I felt a flutter when my index finger passed over the tiny body.
Once more I sang and stroked. A wing fluttered. My spirit sang with such joy I could barely stand. I was filled with wonder at the miracle of life seeming to be taking place by my own hand. Was that my imagination or was there the tiniest quiver in the small body? Was there the barest of a flutter in that teensy chest? I prayed that it was so. Then like the miracle it was turning out to be, the bird fluttered and slowly became aware. I cupped my palms together to form a comfortable resting place and lifted it toward the blue sky. In moments, it was on the wing, heading toward the heavens above us.
As I watched I began to wonder what really happened. When I held that tiny body in my hand, stroking a fingertip over its chest, I knew it was dead. There had been no heartbeat.
Panicking, I ran inside, tears streaming down my face, sure I had committed a grievous sin. My heart was pounding so hard I knew that at any moment it was going to jump right out of my chest for the dreadful act I’d just committed against God.
I knew any minute He would strike me dead.