Obeying the Whistle

A thin-lipped nun blows her whistle. An acre of concrete ground stops playing, acting-out our brief make-believe lives. Reality is a cold wind chewing at pale knees, gray shorts and blue skirts. Catholic children forget their names, their made-up names as well. as they march into the bricked block where classrooms are already shouting instructions. Old now, we forget how it felt, as we filed into the bare-boned halls of a bickered religiosity. How we had to study by rote, like our times-tables, how angry God would forever be with us kids.