Burger

Gloria had a great sense of humour.  She didn't tell jokes.  She did tell stories, and she was a much better story teller than I was or ever will be, for all that I use tons of stories when I am teaching.  She was able to get *my* jokes, which isn't always easy.  She was a wry observer of the absurd.

"Burger" was the last joke she ever told.

My eating preferences aren't healthy.  I like meat and carbs.  Together.  With extra fat.  I'm not a real fan of fruit and vegetables.  (Other than the word.  "Vegetables."  That's a really great word.)  I figure if God had intended us to eat fruit, she would never have invented chocolate.

Gloria knew this.  She was always pushing me to make plain food, with lots of vegetables.  And she knew that, when I was eating out, away from her, I was probably going to be eating something that wasn't particularly healthy, and was probably going to be fast food.  Her firm belief (with plenty of reason behind it) was that anytime I ate anything outside of her presence, it was probably going to be a cheeseburger.

During her last time in hospital, even when she was conscious, she wasn't talking much.  She could make herself understood with a look or a single word, for the most part.  So, when the staff were going to do a procedure on her, and it was near lunchtime, I said I would leave them to it and get some lunch.  Gloria said "Cafeteria."  I said that I didn't want to eat *all* my meals at the hospital cafeteria, so I would go out and get something.

Gloria said, "Burger."  And smiled.

In fact, there wasn't anything within walking distance of the hospital that made or sold burgers, and Gloria knew that, because she knew the central Lonsdale area quite well.  But, she was, basically right: what I got was quite burger-like.

I miss Gloria every single day.