我沿著寬敞的走廊，遵主管職員的囑咐，按著名字與房號，找著老人家的房間。每回到老人院當義工，都有新鮮的任務；這兒每一寸空間，都是許多老人家生命中的最後一站，每個做在他們身上的工作，無論直接的，間接的，我都有獨特的領受。
安靜的初秋下午，陽光從偌大的玻璃窗斜照著半個房間，粉綠色窗帘分往兩旁輕輕挽起，陽光透射下，滿室光影柔和，我把窗子往外推，秋風拂進，外面樹影婆娑，正和著鳥鳴窸窣幌動，是個難得的舒爽日子。
房間中央的睡床上，已脫除了床罩的厚乳膠床褥，給架起在床欄上，看來剛做完了初步清潔；我來到一壁長長的大木櫃前，櫃子中央有一個供擺設物件用的空間，躺著一個耶穌給釘在十架上的銅製聖像，旁邊立著一個有手肘般高的阿西西聖方濟的雕像，兩個聖像都因年日久遠而黝黑了，像跟隨著老人家多年的老朋友，安靜地在空洞的房間繼續守望著。
我把衣櫃門一扇一扇的打開，一陣衣物給儲存良久的氣息襲來，打開一個素未謀面的人的衣櫃，就好像在打開一個陌生人的私隱，房間雖空無一人，仍感老人存在的餘息，我放輕了手腳，打開了櫃子裡面的抽屜，確認所有需要處理的衣物。
老婆婆的四季及日常內外衣物，都井然有序的分類掛放或疊放在不同的區隔裡。單憑這櫃子衣物，老婆婆雖未算富有，看來已是小康。老太太個子應較圓潤高大，各式老婦款式的大花呢絨冬衣，不同厚薄的出外用的外套及背心襯衣褲，碎花長睡袍，色調較青春的粉艷毛冷帽子襪子披風，或許是家中後輩給她添置的，所有外出才穿著的衣物，仍頗新淨，看來久未穿用。
想老人當初從居家遷來院舍，應是生命的重大變遷，家人為衣物仔細分類排列，認真地縫上名字織嘜，每件衣物，隨著款式與質料鬆緊厚薄，那怕是一對襪子，一頂帽子，一條圍巾，小如一節手指的織嘜，都給細心地密密縫在衣物內面適合的地方，可見家人把老人送進院舍的矛盾心情，都藉著這不顯眼，卻又仔細的一針一線的心意補償了。
我把擱著縫紉工具籃的床頭几輕輕推移到衣櫃前，順著衣櫃的間格，把衣服從衣架上逐一除下，翻來覆去，查找名字織嘜的位置， 用拆除線步的小鐵叉子一針一針地把線挑出來，織嘜當初都縫得很細緻，為了避免因過度用力而損壞了衣物，我要慢慢地一針一線小心地拆下來，這樣慢慢的，細細的卻又好像殘忍的移除的動作，就好像正在照顧著步向衰敗未來的老人一樣。
捧著老婆婆一件又一件曾經穿過的衣物，素未謀面，可又是那樣親近，彷彿仍感受到老人的體溫與餘息，又好像在聆聽她向我這素未謀面的陌生女子娓娓述說平生。四季厚薄衣裳，部份似是節慶或飲宴穿著的較隆重，全都保持良好，看來曾經得到婆婆的悉心打理: 我想像著那些衣物，每件大概都有它與婆婆的共同經歷: 婆婆曾經親自挑選的，在鏡前披上，仔細端詳，然後滿意地微笑；又有那些在特別場合穿過的，標誌著人生的各個重要時刻，與那些親朋兒孫一起渡過，在她日漸衰退的腦袋中，仍殘留著回憶，直至最後。
倒是那些可能久經洗濯與烘焗的睡袍與內衣，全都起了毛粒，透露了那才是老人的最後階段狀況下的日常衣著，而且日子不短；每件睡袍背後的中央，都給刻意剪開，大概是為了方便工作人員助她穿脫及更換尿片，老人也許不良於行已久吧，那櫃子她曾經喜愛的衣物，已經不再屬於她面前的歲月了。
我小心查找每件衣物，每隻襪子的名牌釘縫位置，就好像與婆婆打過一次又一次招呼，告訴她:[ 很抱歉，你的名字從此消失了。謝謝你，讓我可以用這種方法認識你。]。我用拆線小叉子沿著織嘜的四周線步，小心翼翼地把線一一剔去，拆著拆著，像要徹底地把婆婆的名字和身份一筆一劃的塗去，不留痕跡。
周遭依然安靜，午後的陽光漸漸西移，光影漸歛，床頭几上堆放著越來越多給拆下來的織嘜，捲曲堆疊如一座小山，像一堆燃燒過後的餘燼。我把櫃子裡的衣物重新檢視一遍，看看是否有遺漏拆除織嘜的，因為不久之後，這些衣物，便會由院舍送給另一些有需要的老人家身上，以新的名字繼續行走世上，展開尚存者生命餘暉中的新體驗，為這些衣物賦予新意義。
我把衣櫃門一扇一扇地關上，正要走出房間，一個年青的清潔女工扛著鋁梯與水桶走進來，準備把房間大清潔，讓新院友入住。
我捧著那堆灰燼似的織嘜，走到存放清潔物品的房間，掀開了灰色的垃圾桶，輕輕地把織嘜投進去，然後掩上蓋子。婆婆今後在地上，除了墓碑，再沒有屬於她的東西留下了。也許，她真正的身份，如今才在天上開始。
走廊上，一個老婆婆正吃力地推著自己的輪椅在門前慢慢走過，問婆婆可要幫忙， 她點點頭，我把她的輪椅往走廊的深處慢慢推過去，剛才那人去樓空的房間，似乎對尚存活的老人心裡，已起不了任何漣漪了。
From a Name to Anonymous
I followed the wide corridor, directed by the supervisor's instructions, searching for the resident's room by her name and number.
Each time I volunteer at the care home, the tasks are new, yet the setting remains the same: this space, in its every corner, is the final physical destination for so many lives. Every action taken here, whether hands-on or administrative, offers me a unique and profound understanding of the path I, too, must journey.
It was a quiet early autumn afternoon. The sunlight streamed diagonally through the enormous window, bathing half the room in a gentle glow. The pastel-green curtains were softly draped to either side, filling the space with diffused light and shadow. I nudged the window open; a subtle autumn breeze entered, rustling the leaves outside in concert with the faint chirping of birds—a rare, refreshing moment.
On the bed in the room’s centre, the thick latex mattress, now stripped, was propped up on the rail, evidence of a recent preliminary clean. I approached a long wooden cabinet. In a small display niche at its heart, a bronze crucifix lay, alongside an elbow-high statue of St. Francis of Assisi. Both figures were blackened with age, silent witnesses who had followed the elderly woman for years, now keeping watch over an empty chamber.
I opened the wardrobe doors one by one. A stale scent of long-stored clothing escaped. To open a stranger's cabinet felt like breaching a private confidence. Though the room was empty, the residual presence of the woman lingered; I moved quietly, checking the drawers to confirm all the garments that required processing.
The elderly woman’s wardrobe—containing seasonal and daily inner and outer garments—was neatly ordered, everything either hung or stacked in precise sections. Judging by the contents alone, she had been a woman of comfortable, if not wealthy, means. She must have been quite large and robust; there were heavy, floral tweed winter coats, various thicknesses of jackets and vests suitable for special occasions, and long, sprigged nightgowns. Some of the brighter, perhaps more youthful, hats, socks, and wraps were likely added by younger relatives. All the outerwear was still quite new, having clearly not been used for a considerable time.
I thought of her move from her own home to the residence—a major upheaval. The family's effort in meticulously classifying her clothes, and so painstakingly sewing on those name labels, spoke volumes. Those tiny tags, no bigger than a fingertip, stitched securely into every garment, every scarf, every pair of socks, seemed to express the family’s complex grief and guilt: a quiet compensation for their difficult decision, communicated through needle and thread.
I gently moved the sewing basket from the bedside table and positioned it before the cabinet. Following the sections, I removed the clothes from their hangers, one after another, searching for the location of the name tag. Using the small iron seam ripper, I picked out the stitches. The tags had been sewn in with such fine, delicate care that I had to proceed slowly, thread by thread, to avoid damaging the fabric. This gradual, deliberate, yet almost cruel act of removal felt exactly like tending to an elderly person in the slow decline toward their inevitable end.
Holding the clothes she had once worn, I felt profoundly intimate with this woman I had never met, sensing her lingering warmth and presence, as if she were quietly recounting her life to me, a complete stranger. The heavier clothes, some clearly formal wear for festivals or banquets, were all in excellent condition, a testament to her careful stewardship. I imagined their shared history: the garments she chose herself, smiling in the mirror; those worn for major life events shared with loved ones, their memories lingering in her fading mind until her last moments.
It was the worn nightgowns and innerwear, likely subjected to countless institutional wash cycles, that were pilled and frayed. They spoke the truth of her final years—her daily uniform during her last phase of life, which must have lasted a considerable time. Each nightgown was intentionally slit down the back, no doubt to allow staff to assist with dressing and changing incontinence pads. She must have been immobile for years; the lovely outfits in her cabinet belonged no longer to the time ahead of her.
I carefully sought out the placement of the name label on every item, every sock, as though greeting her again: "I am so sorry, your name has vanished now. Thank you for allowing me this way to know you." The tip of the seam ripper traced the stitches, lifting the threads one by one, a meticulous, unhurried erasure, obliterating her name and identity, leaving no trace.
The silence was complete. The afternoon sun continued its slow descent, and the light grew faint. On the bedside table, the growing pile of detached name tags curled and stacked up like a small mound of ash after a long burning.
I went through the cabinet again, checking for any missed tags. Soon, the care home would pass these clothes on to other residents in need, where they would resume their journey under a new name, taking on new experiences in the twilight years of other surviving lives, and be granted new meaning.
I closed the wardrobe doors softly. As I stepped out, a young cleaning operative, hoisting a metal ladder and a bucket, walked in to prepare the room for the next incoming resident.
Clutching the mound of ash-like tags, I walked to the utility room, lifted the lid of the grey rubbish bin, and dropped the labels inside. I closed the lid. On earth, aside from a headstone, nothing of her identity remains. Perhaps, her true name and being are only now commencing at her true home.
In the corridor, an elderly woman laboriously pushed her own wheelchair past the door. I asked if she needed help; she nodded, and I pushed her slowly into the corridor's depths. The empty room I had just left, now ready for its next occupant, seemed to cause no ripple in the hearts of the other surviving residents.
