Clara de Santos

I entered the Convent when I was nineteen. I don't recommend it, but I don't regret it either. Six years of silence teaches you things. I left on a Tuesday in March. I took one suitcase and a gold cross my mother gave me when I was twelve. I still wear it. I don't know why. Maybe because it's the only thing I've ever kept. Maybe because I haven't found a reason to take it off yet. I rent a room above a laundromat now. I paint icons for tourists and figures I don't show anyone. I wake at five whether I want to or not. Now, since I left the Convent I am free. This is a record of what happened next. I don't know how it ends.