Chtistmas 1969.

“There is a Christmas tree in the cloister,” said Sister Claire, “and the nuns smile as they pass it by. My childhood is brought to mind by each light and sparkle; the angel on the top replaces the pagan fairy; my father poo pooed the idea of angels; my mother painted angels with the faces of her sisters, the warts and all and their eyes peering from the canvas. My father’s voice bellowed like the wind, his wrath like some ancient god, his eyes deeper and darker than hell itself. I wait by the wall of the cloister garth and watch the birds of winter feed from the lawn the bread and crumbs thrown by Sister Francis, her face a crease of smiles and frowns. The bell rings; the sky a washed out blue, the birds fly off to nearby trees. Sister Scholastica stands by the statue of Our Lady; the flowers at her feet, the eyes raised Heavenward. I watch as she kneels, I watch her hands join in prayer, I see the fingers touch, the eyes close. My mother’s angels haunt my mind, the eyes forever on me, forever judging. Aunt Agnes smoked cigars, her fingers yellow with the smoke, her eyes half closed, her voice heavy with cough and phlegm. Her angel appearance on canvas by my mother’s hand and brush was accurate right down to the yellowy fingers and hairy chin, her eyes peering out like eyes of a hawk, stern, fixed, cold. Sister Scholastica moves to my side, her eyes searching, her hand itching to touch, her voice whispers soft a breeze. The bell rings, the voice of God. The echoing sound hangs on to my ears, fixes my heart. The cold bites my feet and toes; the sky darkens with the threat of snow. We make our way to church for Sext and prayer, the nuns follow, their footsteps hushed by gentle tread, their shoes pace at gentle walk. Incense hangs in the air, the smell of wood and stone, the scent of humanness clings in each stone, each particle of wood in choir stalls. I sit in my place in choir and watch the Crucified hang from His cross, His arms outstretched to caress the world, His head hangs to one side like one in sleep, His eyes closed like sealed containers. The nails grow rusty with the years, the blood congealed with dust and grime. Sister Elizabeth folds her hands in prayer like a flower closing, the fingers caressing like lovers do, the whispered words in the air like birds in flight. The chant begins, the voices rise and fall, the noonday sun struggles though high windows, its beams weak and thin like those near death. I lift my eyes to the Crucified, take in His battered frame, His crown of thorns, His nail hammered hands and feet. I watch for His eyes to open, for His lips to speak, for His hands to bless. Sister Scholastica smiles at me, his eyes deep as the sea, her hands open like flowers at sunlight, her touch tingles through my memories like the feel of summer rain, the like first hold of hands of lovers, like the sight of the manger on Christmas Eve with all assembled around the infant Christ, like the angels of my mother’s art peer at me through their tiny eyes, their painted wings, red, green and gold open out behind them like butterflies prepared for flight. Christmas haunts me with the smell of oils and paint, the feel of my father’s hand gripped around my hand, his eyes dark with anger of ancient gods, his wrath filtering down the years like far off thunder, his words echoing and hurting like the wounds of Christ.” 1