Gypsy Skirt

Memories of a Gypsy Skirt

I was made for the ballet. In my first performance my cherry red fabric swished and swirled as the dancer pirouetted and leapt. The gleaming gold pattern of the braid at my hem glittered and shone under the stage lights.
“I’ve never worn a nicer costume” pronounced the Ballerina, her arms laden with flowers as she curtsied to the crowd.
After the last curtain call I was sold along with many of the other costumes to a Spanish dance troupe. Over the legs of the performer I was flung to and fro as she stamped and kicked to the heart beat rhythm of the music. My material rustled and every thread of my weave vibrated with energy. The gold braid seemed to fling light in all directions as I was swung about.
“This skirt has flair!” exclaimed the Spanish Dancer.
And when that show ended I passed hands again. This time I was to adorn the forlorn figure of a tragic heroine. Her lover had betrayed her and I was swept about the stage with enthusiasm. I lay in crumpled folds about her fragile figure as she died sadly night after night. My cotton cloth brushed up the dust off the stage and the braid no longer gleamed. By the end of the season the stitches pulled and the waist band sagged. Now I was the perfect gypsy skirt, tattered and torn with wear.
“I will miss you old friend,” sighed the actress after the wrap up party.
Thrown in a box with an assortment of props I was handed to the Charity shop.
But I saw yet another performance when I was teamed up with a puffy sleeved white blouse and a colourful scarf. We made the perfect fancy dress costume. Once more I was swished around with delight as my owner danced the night away on New Years Eve. I frolicked under the disco ball and mingled with pirates, princesses and harem girls. No longer cherry red, my fabric danced with the colours of the flashing lights.
“That was the most fun I’ve had in ages,” laughed the party girl.
It was a short run and I soon found myself back at the charity shop. This time I believed it was the end. The braid was frayed and coming away from my hem and my seams were opening. There was little colour left in my worn fabric and I was tired.
That was before Amy’s mother found me.
She saw my soft cotton fabric and full length and thought of a little girl who loved to dance. She stitched the braid back on and fixed the hems. A little elastic run through my waist band gave me a new shape and I was ready for the performance of my career.
Amy is not a ballerina. Yet she pirouettes, spins and twirls me like I have never been spun before. She is not a Spanish dancer. Yet she flings me around with the most energy I have experienced. Amy is a wonderful actress, and she throws herself into each routine with absolute commitment. Every day is a party. Every day is fun. My adventures never end and I have never been loved so completely.