I was one of Sister Annie’s miracles.
At first, the other sisters – well, they pressed their mouths on their dark sleeves, they slouched away. Distrusting her. Disbelieving. It’s a difficult thing, to believe in.
St. Jean’s, is in the middle of the valley. By a crooked river. On the edge. The fog rolls down the valley, at night. Slicks in, on the river. The convent sits in a bowl of fog, till nearly noon, each day. On the steps, in the morning, I look into fog. Though I can’t see the river, I imagine seeing the river. A man, I imagine, on a raft. He lifts, when he glides by, his dark head. He winks at me.
Sister Liz, is wild. She hears what no one else hears. She converses, with her own self. One evening she cornered me, in the cloister. Under … a juniper tree.
“How does it feel?” she whispered.
“To be a … child of God?” smiling.
She looked at me, a long while, smiling. She left; I shook. The leaves, of the tree, shook with me.
Each day, is windier. The sisters, their tunics, moving. The river.
How does it feel?
I wonder. I sometimes wonder. I sit here, and I stare into fog.
And I wonder.