The one thing I couldn’t figure out about Gloria was the bag. It was an old, faded canvas hospital bag with frayed corners, and she carried it everywhere.
If a nurse tried to move it to make room on her nightstand, Gloria would politely reach out and take it right back.
“Is that bag important?” I asked once.
“Everything that matters to me is inside it.”
“Can I see?”
She carried it everywhere.
The elderly woman smiled the way people do when they’re saying no without saying it.
“One day, maybe.”
I let it go. Everyone’s allowed a private corner of the world.
Sometimes I’d catch her thumbing through the edges of a small photograph she kept tucked at the top, then quickly closing the bag when she noticed me watching.
I let it go....
Sarah, another orderly who’d become my closest friend at the home, teased me about our relationship once in the break room.
“You know Gloria’s basically adopted you, right?” Sarah said. “It’s funny. She transferred in right before you were hired. Almost as if she were waiting.”
“She’s just lonely.”
“Daniel, she lights up when you walk into the room. That woman thinks the sun rises out of your pocket!”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I wasn’t used to being someone’s favorite anything.
Teased me about our relationship.
