Ronald Scully
Reservations
The server seemed familiar. The plum-colored beauty mark
on her chin was unmistakable, but I couldn’t place her.
She laid down menus and offered us cocktails. It was happy hour
and we, my brother and his wife, intended on nursing a couple
of rounds into an early-bird special. Two hours later we were
satiated, declined desert, and while finishing our coffee
I was still ruminating over where I knew her from.
I thought about asking her directly, as she left the check
on the table with a couple of mints. But I didn’t. I feigned
calculating the gratuities instead. I looked away. I didn’t
know where that might lead to.
As I scribbled my signature, she caught me off guard. She
thanked me, as if a secret, by my first name. I went apoplectic.
All thought drained. Her resonance made me flush.
Her kindness, clear as a bell. Her unforgettable beauty mark.
It was the nun, the one who took me aside one morning
in the 9th grade and expressed concern over my daydreaming.
It was Sister Winifred Joseph, whom I owe, to this day.
shooting star
still carrying
the torch
About the Author
Ron Scully is a retired bookseller.After half a lifetime on the road he has repaired to the Pacific Northwest to read and write.He practices haiku daily and has published widely in short form journals. He has published seven chapbooks to date, Otherwise, his grandchildren keep the neurons firing.