Do you remember all those nuns from when we were little?
They manifested such grace. I loved their hidden smiles and how they used to slip about the school, hands clasped and heads bowed as though they were in a state of permanent prayer.
I hadn’t noticed.
I admired them.
They lived pointless lives.
But they brimmed with all that arcane and mysterious knowledge.
Within the church, yes: but that was all they knew.
I know. I mean: I understand that now. Back then I believed in their power, their secrets, passed onto them by the church – their proximity to God.
They were trophy women for the
Perhaps. I see them more as ghosts now.
A cluster of former women, held by their graces, shuffle past the window. They finger rosaries with a devout force of habit, platinum hoops flashing in the muted shades of encroaching dusk. Their lips, soft and untouched except by the word of God, exhale the heady vapours of prayer. Descended and pregnant clouds make ready to break water on their virgin heads.
Baptism of nature.