Holy Spirit

Every convent has a secret. Ours is behind the hay.

Forty gallons a month. I call it Holy Spirit. One sip and you see Him. Two sips and you see Him twice.

Tuesday the sheriff came looking for the still. Somebody talked. Probably Sister Margaret. She talks in her sleep, and she sleeps in church.

I hid behind the bales with the last jar. Held it like a newborn.

He searched the barn. He searched the chapel. He searched the confessional and came out looking pale.

Then he found me.

He looked at the jar. I looked at his badge.

"Sister," he said. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Sheriff," I said. "That depends on what you think it costs."

He's my best customer now.

He also drives the delivery truck.

Photographed, not generated. Salton Sea, 1 May 2016.

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