The Sardinian Sister

When I was studying in Rome a couple of lifetimes ago, the big motherhouse where I lived had a corps of Italian nuns who did the cooking. Their superior was a dark and manly nun of more than middle age named Madre Caterina. She was from Sardinia. Madre Caterina was missing parts of a couple of fingers. A cooking accident. It was a joke at mealtime that some of the priests would not eat until she came out to serve the food and they could verify that there were no fewer digits than last time.

She was a no-nonsense nun, old school. She used to go out to the street markets to buy meat for the house, since it was cheaper, but then she would let it hang in the cooler for a few days so it was not quite fresh. She did not think that people with a vow of poverty should eat too well.

I once met her in the TV room, quite a rarity, since the nuns and the priests did not socialize. I greeted her politely, "Buona sera, madre. Come sta Lei?" (Good evening, mother. How are you?)  Without really looking at me, she said, sort of to the universe, in her Sardo-like lingo, "Zo shtank a mord." (I'm dead tired.)

I am well enough, physically. But there are some things, both in me and in the world, that make me wanna say, "Zo shtank a mord."