In Medias Res
It was the first Sunday after Sister died.
The fury she thrust to Him was unmatched in its fever.
Suddenly the Lerwick meadow, who once breathed spirit and serenity, seemed stiff and sluggish as Sister who died on Sunday.
As did six orphans in a whorehouse. There and sometimes in a chapel. And sometimes in the streets and moretimes in those sodden streams below the earth. They dignify each other night after night. They justify it- the abbess is no saint.
But Sister was a saint. The saint of bread, spare change, finer pleasure. Saint Bonnevie, they called her.
We tried institutions and absolutions, but Sister died so suddenly on a Sunday. At dawn “orphan” was just a given name and by dusk it was an ugly crater branded in our ribs.
About the Author
Neha Dronamraju is a first year student majoring in Public Health. She is a green tea afficionado, and her favorite author is Toni Morrison.