Except Gloria.
Gloria was eighty-two years old, stubborn, sharp-minded, and somehow capable of making everyone around her smile without even trying.
The first time I brought her breakfast tray, she studied me carefully.
“You’re new,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But you don’t move like someone new.”
I smiled. “What does that mean?”
“You carry that tray like you’ve been carrying things for people your whole life.”
Her words caught me off guard.
“Something like that,” I said. “I’m Daniel.”
“Well, Daniel,” she replied, patting the chair beside her bed, “sit down for a minute and tell me about yourself.”
No one had asked me that in years.
From that morning on, sitting with Gloria became part of my routine.
