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.