The Nun In Glendalough
Some years back, I went up into the Wicklow Mountains
just outside Dublin, to stay at a hermitage and feel
as small as a word on a page. It was there I met a little
Irish nun, no taller than five feet, who wore dark blue jeans,
a crimson sweater, rain boots, and a grey rain jacket.
She had large brown eyes, round glasses, perpetual pursed
lips, and her hair had streaks of silver flashing across
strands of night, as if the moon had brushed its fingers
through it.
The first thing she said to me—as she lit her cigarette
and I took mine out to join her—was, You look like a person
that lives too close to their thoughts. Startled, I replied,
Well, I am a poet…and as smoke danced from her cigarette,
she quickly interceded, Even worse—then your thoughts
think they are God. I liked her instantly. From then on,
we had a smoke with each other every morning and evening—
our lungs burnt offerings in the name of everything on fire.
She asked me about my life. I asked about hers. A seesaw
of stories. She asked, Do you believe in God? I said, God,
for me, has been gasping for a spec of breath, which I am told
is everywhere. She nodded, inhaled, and responded, The belief
was beaten out of me long ago, but not the love. Exhaling,
I asked, So no afterlife in your theology? Shaking her head,
she observed, Heaven is empty because we never realize when
we are there. We talked about teardrops. The ones that dried long
ago. The ones that fell from our faces and never stopped falling.
The ones that became mirrors. I said, The cross to bear is my
brain. She answered, A bird in a cage must fly inside itself. I said,
I don’t know if I will make it. She retaliated, We are born with one
heart, and die with countless in our chests. Who knows how many
must flatline before we go? Exhaling, I said, I was born thirsty
and hungry and with a heap of burning coals atop my head.
Exhaling, she examined, Sometimes the ocean is so quiet,
you forget there are millions of miles of it and how storms churn
its stomach and that there are shipwrecks beneath its glistening
eyes. Sometimes joy feels so complete—you briefly forget how
all this ends.
One afternoon, after I had rolled both my ankles and they swelled
like two stars of throbbing over the sides of my shoes, and I limped
five hours down the mountain—irritated, she asked, Do you enjoy
punishing yourself? (I could have called for help. Why aren’t there
more stories about how, at times, the help doesn’t help? They exist
too.) Laughing and wincing, I said, Parts of me have grown sea
urchin spines. My pupils. My fingertips. My lips that carry so much
pain between them like opposite ends of a deep wound. I reach for
the life in me and it stings. She was not amused, so I asked her,
Do you ever miss sex? Her face loosened and quipped, Yes,
but I don’t miss getting fucked by charming men such as yourself.
We both cracked up. We are at our best when we crack until our
cracks reach each other, I thought. I am no angel, that’s true,
I said, as I got up to head into my cottage, to which she replied,
You don’t have a halo, but nothing can ever rip off that glow just
above your head. I looked back and smiled without any of my teeth.
On the morning I was leaving, my credit card was not going through,
and I had no cash left. She hated my apologies. She said, Enough,
I am no priest and this isn’t confession. We went outside and it was
still dark as I waited for the bus. We had one last cigarette together,
and she said, If you don’t send me a check in seven days, I will bring
the full wrath of God down upon you. I would expect nothing less,
I replied with a chuckle. I could see her smirking as she took a drag
and all the grace in the world was pouring from her face,
and down the street, St. Kevin’s ruins were waking up, the sun rising
between its exposed ribs like some brand new heart.
Andreas Fleps is a 29-year-old poet, based near Chicago. He studied Theology and Philosophy at Dominican University, and has appeared or is forthcoming in publications such as High Shelf Press, Snapdragon, Allegory Ridge, and Waxing & Waning, among others. Battling Major Depressive Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder since the age of five, he translates teardrops.