Sister Mary Grace
Sister Mary Grace
was my third grade teacher.
Like all of the other nuns in our school,
everything but the front part of her face
was hidden by a starched, white wimple
and a black habit,
layers of robe-like cloth which fell
straight from her shoulders to the floor.
I remember how her face
had a pale, never-in-the-sun look
and how the fingers on her left hand
were stiff, frozen and twisted.
Every Friday afternoon, she made the entire class
stand in a line along the front blackboards
with a hand extended, palm up.
Sister Grace would then go down the line
smacking each child's hand with a ruler,
once for each wrong committed that week.
We all got smacked a number of times because
we all had, of course, sinned that week.
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