MEMORIES BEFORE MATINS.

Sister Brigid’s ear caught the sound of the cloister bell even though the
shutters were up against the cold and wind and barely a thin line of light
peeked through the crack between shutters like a Peeping Tom and pushing
reluctantly the thin blankets from the bed she raised her head to the crucifix
above the bed with the Crucified nailed hard against the darkened wood by
nails rusty and aged and made the sign of the cross from forehead to breast
from shoulder to shoulder and the let the cold hand hang there in the chilled
morning air waiting for the lips to find prayer to get sense back in numbed
toes hear the voice of God in the bird chorus outside the window and the
wind through the trees and take note of the cobweb hanging from the right
hand of Christ and a small spider lingering the corner and the smell of stale
flesh and damp cloth and sitting up she put her feet on the wooden floor
clinging on to the few words of praise her mind could raise up from the
depth of soul and dark of dawn and staring at the shutters taking in the
peeling paint and the picture of St Therese of Lisieux above the sink the
bright eyes gazing back at her seeking to understand and to love and
wanting to reach out and standing she walked to the window and pulled back
the shutters showing the dim morning light and the chill hanging on to the
tree in the garth and the statue of the Madonna holding the child with
flowers frozen at her feet and she let her eyes sweep the cloister garth noting
the birds flitter from branch to branch and the moon still there in the corner
of her vision and the new day sun sitting up there in the eastern corner of her
sight and the echo of the bell still in her ears and Sister Mary calling at the
door with her thrill voice saying the Benedictus and moving on along the
passage with her clumping feet and small bell and moving back to the bed
Brigid removed her nightgown and began to dress in cloth of the order of
black and white and the stiffness and coldness touching and blessing her
skin and having completed the dressing she stood by the bed and lifted her
head and looked at the Christ with His closed eyes and arms outstretched as
if He wanted to embrace the world and take all to Him to remove all sin and
hurt and pain and deep dark feelings that even she at that moment felt and
wanted Him to know her more and better and to speak more louder and
clearly and draw her nearer and hold her closer and speak His words until
her ears rattled and there was in those carved features a sense of suffering
chiselled in the wood brought out of the texture created out of an anonymous
nun’s fingers and hands this Christ this Crucified this Agnus Dei and looking
away she remembered her mother kissing the feet of the nailed figure of a
plaster Christ the wet lips touching and the closed eyes and the whispered
pray and the clear memory of her mother hanging there behind the door of
her bedroom by the dressing gown belt about her neck two feet from the
ground and the eyes bulging from sockets as if seeking unto the end some
coming saviour some sacrificed Christ someone to come some one to heal
some one to mend.