“Something like that.”
***
After that morning, it became a routine. I became the person she talked to every day. Somewhere along the way, she stopped feeling like a patient and started feeling like family.
I’d bring Gloria tea after my shift, and she’d tell me stories about growing up on a farm, about her late husband, and about the way people used to dance in kitchens when the radio played the right song.
She never mentioned family visiting, because nobody ever did, unlike the other residents.
It became a routine.
“I had a nephew once,” Gloria told me one evening, stirring her tea more slowly than usual. “Marcus. He stopped visiting once he realized I wasn’t leaving anytime soon. But he’ll come back the moment he hears I’m gone. People are like that, Daniel. You’ll learn.”
“You don’t seem bitter about it,” I said.
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“Bitterness is a house I refuse to live in.”
“I had a nephew once.”
***
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?”
