We See Roma in Wagons

The beginning of our journey causes alarm to those who do not join us. 

Forward one step, backward two steps, like clockwork.

It is difficult to feed everyone.

At times we cross state borders, then recross.

There is a sanctity to our footsteps, the rolling of cartwheels over broken glass.

It is an an appalling sound.

We cover ourselves with prayer.

We believe in God's blessing.

Troubles follow.

There is ungovernable treachery.

We try to remain inconspicuous.

The sun thwarts our clandestine movements.

A nameless man joins the landlocked voyagers we have become.

He holds children close to his breast, gives them comfort and helps them stop crying.

There is no stopping this type of evil when it strikes children.

We are kin to God but our armor is insufficient to raze down the illicit tabernacle of murder.

A mass of rolling clouds, the wetness of it changing reality from white to grey:

A shattering wail of evil intentions from beyond the sky.

We pass a camp of Roma.

They wave.

Their little children are bright like butterflies.

My wife begins weeping.

I try but cannot stop her bitter sadness.

"God is good," she whispers.

"God is just," I reply.

My words make her grief terrible.

A nameless mad thing slices into our hearts. 

I say no more.

The sobbing of my wife's horror makes me want to die.