Pulling out, Johnny almost hits the old nun.
Her blue habit flapping in the breeze. The sun
catching the stubble on her chin, the deeply
etched creases in her forehead. Her mouth
is a dark oval of terror and time
stops. Her feet don’t move. I wonder, did she see
the silver grille of Johnny’s beat-up Honda?
Or did she see God? Did she think, Saints
preserve me, or just, Oh, shit! Did she feel her soul
float to heaven on a cloud? Or did she hear
brakes squealing? For a moment, did she know
what everything means? Tell me, sister. Tell me,
why is it, in my dreams, your face
is no longer wrinkled, red, or scared,
but serene?
Photo Credit: Marc Samsom Flickr via Compfight cc
