Mom’s hair fell out, but she didn’t need a wig.
Joining the convent meant wearing a habit,
pulling the wimple over her forehead
and forsaking vanity forever.
When we visited, the Mother Superior
said she’d never seen such a natural convert,
proved it by pointing to the chapel,
where Mom was kneeling in the first pew
and pleading with God for our absolution, probably,
because we sit in the back if Dad makes us go to Mass.
She’d lost even more weight. I could tell,
even though the habit hid her frame,
and she made the sign of the cross
over the spot where her eyebrows used to furrow.
Before we hugged, before she’d leave the pew,
she genuflected, stooping long enough to panic us.
That’s when I beheld her eyes’ whole curvature
for the first time, their lapis lazuli orbs glistening
as she clasped her crucifix pendant
and tilted her chin up at the ceiling.
She beamed, dimples at home again in her unpainted cheeks,
and though I didn’t know why and might never,
I knew then that she could be saved.