Flying Lessons by Bernadette McBride Wed hide in those years, Kate and I, behind the last station in the Bio lab—sneaking down from our dorm room, certain Sister Andrea didnt know. Smoking Salems, we giggled above the slant of a copped flashlight shrunk to Lady Chatterly and John Thomas spirited from the nuns private library where we smiled our way by dust cloths and Pledge. We lived as sheltered vagabonds then, roaming the convent halls in curlers and bunny slippers, dipping out of sight at the swish of habit skirts, the click of rosary beads: the bed-check patrol we sidetracked with puffed-up pillows buried beneath blankets in the low glow of a Virgin Mary night light. Our days opened and shut like the hard-backed books we lugged around in drawstring sacks from class to class, skimming their surfaces like fledglings dipping at the skin of a lake. Only half mindful of the lessons electric in the passion of our teachers, half alert to the gaining weight of our widening minds.
Posted on: Thu, 17 Oct 2013 21:28:11 +0000
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