WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE ME DANCE

The convent was old, with high stone walls.
Classrooms and cloisters and silent halls.
Painted Madonnas, and polished floors,
Stony statues, and darkened doors.

“You’ll enjoy teaching there,” everyone said,
And I nodded, and smiled, and thought of the Head.
Sister Brendan was Irish, unsmiling and tall.
Although I’m quite average, she made me feel small.

I remembered quite clearly that interview day
In her office. She proffered her hand in a way
Not unfriendly, and yet, undeniably cool.
She hoped I’d be happy on the staff of her school.

I couldn’t help feeling I’d seen her before.
Was there something familiar in the line of her jaw?
And her eyes… remarkable pools of steel grey,
Reflecting the light and the shadows that day.

The class that I taught was eager and bright.
Except for one child, who, try as I might
To reach her, remained withdrawn and apart.
The essence of this child stayed locked in her heart.

One day, to my eternal shame,
I turned to the child and called her name.
“Mary,” I said, as I asked her to come
To the front of the class. “Are you dumb?

Are you deaf, can you hear, can you see?
Talk to me child… Please answer me!”
I went on and on… don’t ask me why.
I think I just needed to make her cry.

If she cried, then at least I could dry her tears.
Comfort her, hug her. Dispel her fears.
My voice faltered then, and faded away.
“I’ll go back to me seat now, Miss, if I may.”

How heartless I felt, how cruel and unkind,
With Mary’s sad face etched into my mind
Forever it seemed. Would I ever forget
The wrong that I did her today, and yet,

Somehow I knew she did understand
That my only wish was to hold out my hand
For her to grasp in her moment of need,
And turn to me for solace indeed.

I was bent at my desk the following day.
It was breaktime, and all the girls were at play.
I glanced up from my books, becoming aware
Of a presence before me, standing there.

It was Mary. Graceful and tall, with her hands at her side,
Her black drawn back and caught with a slide.
Her brown eyes were grave, and her face very pale,
Unsmiling, silent, and utterly frail.

“Miss, there is something I really can do,
And I would like to show it to you.
Miss, would you give me one more chance?
Would you like to see me dance?”

And so, after school, when the classroom was cleared,
An ethereal, wraithlike Mary appeared.
Clad in a leotard, hair scraped high,
Revealing a line so pure to the eye
That she seemed hardly earthly. On thistledown feet
She danced to violins’ throbbing beat.
Her limbs were fashioned from liquid steel,
As slowly, slowly she did reveal
The essence that was Mary. So enchanted was I
That time slipped inexorably by,
And the music ceased… Mary was still.

Slowly, slowly, seconds passed, till
I glanced at the door and saw standing there,
Sister Brendan, hands clasped as though in prayer,
Gazing at Mary. She then turned to me,
And all became clear, as with certainty,
At last I knew who the stern sister was.
Her face, and her form, those eyes, and because,

As she turned to reflect on the child once more,
I glimpsed, for one moment, her soul, and was sure
That here in the cloistered halls of St Claire,
Her spirit danced on, through Mary.

© Lynne Harris