My first grade teacher was a tall
kind-hearted joyful woman. 
Her hair was perfect, symmetrical
waves of the brightest red
framing her clean forehead, 
blooming from the front of her veil. 
We were told 
that her hair went far
down her back. 
I never saw it. 
My mother did. 

I loved that teacher with
something about as pure as
how she loved me, about as pure
as how she loved Jesus. I loved 
her so much that I was jealous 
of how she loved other kids,
of how sometimes my mom
talked to her and had business
with her that didn't include me.

There's a photo of a bicentennial cake
taking up her entire classroom: 
Donated refrigerator boxes covered 
with construction paper, toilet paper
tubes fashioned into two hundred 
birthday candles.  And another photo
of our First Communion, innocent
children lined up by height, led by her
to the altar, identical Amens 
synchronized and choreographed
to purity and perfection. 

And picture day, a rare day
out of our uniforms. I had a new shirt
with Mexican embroidery on the pockets.
At the front of the line, she stood,
dabbing Vaseline on each student's lips. 
She put her hands on my shoulders and told me
I was handsome.  "Smile, honey."

Her name was Sister Rosaline. That entire year she taught me first grade, she also served as a prison chaplain, as she did for years after. After she retired from teaching, she served in hospital ministry until her death in 2007.