She was a Mercy nun
In the convent on Locust Street
Where I, a fifth grader,
Went for lessons
Thursday afternoons.
What patience she had,
And those soft hands
That so seldom touched mine.
Alone with her decades later
In the convent parlor
Bending over her piano
She plays songs she had sung
With her deceased nuns, and
Hears herself humming them
When standing out among the crosses,
Tearless, she said,
after having shed so many,
While waiting so long.
She looks away
But keeps on playing,
Lifting her eyes
From off her stiffened fingers,
Trembling slightly,
On yellowish ivory keys.
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