Daniela

Daniela taught me how to find hope and good cheer again. I watched her move through the ward with quick, light steps. I searched her face in vain for any sign of impatience, and I listened to her voice without ever catching the smallest hint of coldness. From under her starched white cap, two wisps of black hair escaped. Her skin spoke of distant islands—very distant ones: overseas. Almost a dream, or at least something wholly singular: one person, strange and bright among a crowd of others utterly unlike her in nature and bearing. Kindness amid indifference. Warmth where there was none. The doctors and hospital staff I had known seemed caught in the rhythm of their work—difficult work, no doubt—like workers on some massive assembly line. Daniela did her job differently. She was a craftsperson. She eased suffering wherever she could, however she could: a service rendered free, a gesture that seemed small but that to a sick person is like a hand laid gently on the heart. A few words spoken to a human being. In the end, almost nothing—a smile, an outstretched hand, two or three words worth a long letter written to an exile.