EASTER SUNDAY.

A NUN AND HER THOUGHTS ON EASTER SUNDAY.

Sister Scholastica passed the salt to the nun beside her on the refectory table. Anticipation of the needs of others; charity in action; the nun nodded and smiled. The roast beef succulent; the dark-brown gravy and mouth-watering Yorkshire pudding part of the celebration of the Crucified’s resurrection. She cut slowly through the meat, her eyes lifted toward the nun reading opposite from the Rule of St Benedict, her ears capturing the stiff voice of Sister Mary. Mother, before her mind dissolved into madness, made Sunday her blessed day with her roasts, the pork done to a turn, as father used to say when his temper was even, his smacking hand at rest. Her mother’s eyes were bright, but showed the beginnings of the madness creeping; her father laughed too infrequently at the joys of life then. She sipped at the red wine; held the glass close to her lips to sip again. Warming. You go to my head. Wine always did. Francis, whom she nearly married, poured her wine until she was pliable; they copulated in her parent’s bed when they were off for the weekend on a business venture of her father’s. She sipped; felt the inner glow. The tomb was empty, the body gone. The Crucified had risen. Francis rose up when he heard a car pull up in the driveway; panic when her parents returned early. Rush. Tidied up the bed. Sighed. The wine is good. The beef held in the mouth to take in the juices. Este es el día de Cristo elevadose, Sister Mary had said to her after mass, touching her hand, smiling, maybe wanting more, the day Christ is raised, she said in English, her eyes sparkling like a cut diamond in sunlight. Sister Gabrielle passed her more potatoes; charity in action; remembering others. We are unimportant, her mother had said, the cross symbolizes the negation of self, the I crossed out. Selfless, her mother’s voice repeated on her lucid days sandwiched between madness and light. She lifted her eyes to the high windows; saw the sunlight play on the head of the nun reading, dance across the floor of the refectory. Would the sister pass more wine? Who knows. Charity in action. Mother drank gin and when she’d drunk herself merry would dance with me around the lounge much to Father’s annoyance and he grumbled and moaned. The nun on her left passed the wine. Refilled her glass. Smiled. Father rarely smiled. Never, once Mother was in the asylum and her baby sister Margaret buried in the small white coffin. Christ is raised; Christ will come once more. Father forgive me, I didn’t know your heart was so cold, she wanted to say to him, but never did, especially after he beat her and left her in the cold dark room where her sister had died in her cot. The wine warmed. She gazed at the Crucified on the cross above the Abbess’s table, his arms out wide as if to embrace the sinful world, inside and outside of the cloister. The crown of thorns hammered into the skull uncomfortably. Risen. The tomb empty. The body gone. Her mother, father, sister and Francis had gone. No resurrection of them except in her memory and the haunting dreams. Easter Sunday. The wine, the blood of Christ, saved. She sighed. Gazed over at Sister Mary, whose eyes moved over the page as she read, and felt charity inwardly, remembered the touch, the hand warm, the voice near her ear speaking the Spanish of her childhood saying: Amor en acción, love in action. Sisters. Saved. Blessed is He who rose. Lighten my darkness. Save me from my ghosts and memories. Amen.