As much a mother
as she could be,
from the kitchen,
at St. Vincent's Orphanage,
This, Sister Annella
was to me.
Whenever she chanced
to see me pass,
she'd beckon me in.
Ever joyous,
brimming with infectious laughter,
she'd stuff my hand with cookies
or other good things.
She made me feel a princely lad.
Big-boned,
energetic,
a farm girl
from upper North Dakota,
a score of years before,
she readily lifted
heavy pots and pans,
performed a million kitchen chores.
She loved the West,
its open prairies, open skies,
its native Indian peoples.
Humming or singing cowboy songs,
she moved the day along.
Though drawn to the charms
of country boys
in the peak of maidenhood,
her heart was set on Francis,
Assisian lover of the poor.
And thus it was from high school
she entered consecrated life
with the Sisters of St. Francis
in faraway New York.
When walking by her doorway
one early summer day,
I felt a sudden rush
of wind-like air
and glimpsed a running brown clad form.
Sr. Annella, now beside me,
placed her hands upon my shoulders
and kissed me on the head.
confused, bewildered,
I paused a moment, dazed,
then continued on my way.
What remained to me a mystery,
Sister Annella knew-
This would be my final day,
at St. Vincent's Orphanage.
