We are in a bus,
my mother and I.
We are going to Zaragoza.
There is a nun sitting next to us.
She looks down,
hands crossed over a bag on her lap,
fat fingers.
In the middle of the trip
she takes out a small apple from the bag.
She offers the apple to me.
No words, just the gesture,
a tight smile that reveals no teeth.
Thank you, my mother says.
I don’t take the apple.
With her right thumb
the nun makes the sign of the cross
over the apple’s skin.
She starts eating.
The apple is crunchy,
the first bite is loud
and the nun covers her mouth with both hands.
She has a piece of apple in her mouth.
She does not dare to chew it.
She cannot spit it out.
We look at each other.
She is probably embarrassed of her hunger.
She has shown the world that her body has needs.
The loud apple is her penitence.
After a while
she keeps eating
with small, silent, careful bites,
always covering her mouth with both hands.
She keeps eating
until there is almost nothing left,
just the thin, bare core of the apple.
No seeds remain.
Wasting food would have added another sin for confession.
When she is finished
she hides the core of the apple in her hand,
presses her lips with the back of her fist.
I notice the apple’s stem sticking out
like a rebellious appendix.