Their clip-clopping harmony keeping perfect tempo with the rumble of carriage wheels, affording a sound as sweet as any symphony I’ve ever heard. It’s the sound of escape. The sound of goodbye. A sound that’s always served to soothe me in the past, providing the much-needed assurance that the unwelcome inquiries and suspicions of newly alerted acquaintances would soon fade—allowing for a brief respite in a new location, before I’m on the move again. I’m a gypsy. A nomad. A vagabond. A drifter. I am one who wanders incessantly—though not always by choice. The things others take for granted—a permanent address, an extended family, a group of close and trusted friends—are not for my kind. I’ve made that mistake before, learned my lesson the hard way.
