Memoir: Letter to a Nun

I never understood why your face was always bright red. Your cheeks were perennially flushed, as if you were really excited about something. But the rest of you was hidden in the black and white, starch and folds of your nun's habit. The beaded crucifix clinked and jangled against your chest as you moved about, always seeming to be in a hurry, always rushing to catch up. We never knew with what.

You were a small, round, swirling tornado that never touched ground, not quite connecting with us in the real world of the concrete and asphalt of our school yard, inside the six foot tall cyclone fence. When we were inside it, we minded you, because you were so quick to swing the yardstick. Or leave an impression of your fingers on our cheeks.

But all I ever learned from you was how to duck.