At the Toronto Western hospital a young woman, a volunteer, stands brightly in the atrium. She’s not very old, maybe just out of high school, and she’s wearing a hijab over her head and a pink sweater that’s grown pilly with use under her blue hospital vest. Her arms are crossed at her chest, where she holds a binder, and her face is alert, compassionate and welcoming. She is waiting to help. She looks out at the crowds of uncertain people shuffling through the foyer, scanning for expressions of confusion or anxiety, and when she somebody who looks like they might need assistance, she approaches them. With a smile as radiant as a halo, she asks if she can help, and then she escorts that person to the washroom, elevator or whatever department they are looking for before returning to her post. And then she stands there, waiting, the light pouring out of her and touching everything.
