“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?”
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.
