A Gypsy's Book of Revelations

children have dressed up for the occasion. My boys got their hair gelled and neatly combed back. I can see traces of the comb, like narrow trenches ploughed on their heads. They’re not light on the gel; it’s tradition, something that cannot be shampooed easily. It doesn’t matter that I don’t like it, that I like their hair unruly and puffy on their skull. I don’t get to be picky, even for my cremation. It’s a package. What I have is a choice of perspective; I can open my brain to different angles of the room and ou