Afternoon sun touched the cloister garth. The office of None had just completed. Sister Teresa walked slowly down the cloister from the church, letting her failing eyesight search for the opening to the garth. Heard the clink of cups on saucers; the chatter of voices; nearby the smell of the flowers in the flowerbeds. Her white stick tapped against the wall as she walked; her arthritic hand gripped it painfully. Felt the sun's rays on her face; the slight breeze touch her habit like as saucy child. Remembered a summer long ago before she entered the convent. The green of grass in her memory and a kiss. Who's kiss? She searched her memory like one seeking through an old chest. Jude. Yes, Jude. Smiled. Felt opening in the wall; turned into the garth. She remembered vaguely his face; felt the grass beneath her feet. Someone touched her arm with their hand. One of the sisters spoke. Not Sister Clare. Dead now. Most of them were she knew. She listened to the tone of the voice; her eyes failed her again. Sister Mark. Her mind grasped the image that fitted the voice. She smiled. Sister Mark had led her by the arm and asked about tea and cake. Tea, yes, no cake, she said. Mama had a similar voice. Mama had said not to let them touch. Not men; not to be trusted. Or was that papa? She couldn't remember. Take it easy, Mother Abbess had told her; take things steady. Fifty years since she came that summer. She recalled the heat of that summer. The cloister's smell of bread and incense. Papa's face when she left home that day; the tears in his eyes; the awkward smile on his lips. No one came now. All dead and buried. Clare in the convent cemetery next to the wall; mole holes along by the gravestone. That had been an adventure in the art of love. A secret known only to God and them. Mea culpa, she whispered. Sister Mark handed a cup and saucer; soft hand touched hers; sweet voice spoke of the weather and the smell of the flowers. Sighed. Breathed in the air. Sipped tea. Cup rattled in the saucer. Stood here once and spoke to all; now few speak; only the kind and brave. Sister Mark spoke of the new novices and of the freshness about them. Sister Teresa looked about her; a vague scan of images; of faces in white and their youthful giggles and chatter. She had been as such once. She, her loves, and her memories. The bell tolled from the cloister clock; voices stilled. The breeze calmed. The sun eased off and hid behind a cloud. Someone took her cup and saucer and placed a hand on her arm. Not to touch, not over much. Mama had said. One of the dead. The God blessed dead. She walked back along the cloister, the hand still on her arm; flesh on flesh. Not to touch, not over much, a soft voice whispered of long ago.