I spent five weeks of this summer studying abroad in Cusco, Peru. During my time there, many things left an impact on me. Everything from interactions with locals, to climbing mountains, attending mass in Spanish, having small conversations in Quechua, and taking in the magnificence of the Milky Way are memories that I will hang on to for as long as possible. Working with the elderly of Peru, however, is an experience that has ingrained itself in my heart. I volunteered at an old age home for a couple of hours every morning before heading to class in the afternoon. At the old age home, we provided an extra set of hands wherever one was needed. We folded laundry, assisted during meals, cleaned, helped out at physical therapy, and spent time with the elderly. I found a lot of enjoyment, or more appropriately, fulfillment, in the intimacy of caring for someone else. I have never felt more important, or needed, or filled with gratitude for the human spirit, than in the times when after a lunch of nearly silent, painfully slow spoon-feeding, the woman who I was with would grab my hands, look in my eyes, and whisper “gracias mami” with more sincerity than I thought was possible. The memories I have of the old age home, albeit sad, are not surface level. I know that memories of the mountains, long bus rides, and even the spectacle of Machu Picchu will become blurry with time. I also know that the memories of the women in the old age home will not vanish. They have already converted themselves into feelings, lessons, and adages that will carry themselves in the core of my heart for what I hope is the rest of my life.
As I write this, I am worried about my friends in the old age home in Cusco. I am worried that they are sick, that they are dying, that they have forgotten me. In reality, I know that these things are true, or at least soon to be true. They are the inevitable and painful facts of life. Even though working with the elderly, some of whom were very close to dying or died during our stay, was undeniably sad at times, I am thankful for the kindness the women showed me, for the ways we found to communicate when I spoke only a handful of words of their native Quechua, and for the way they made me more perceptive and patient.
A translation of something one of the women said to me: “You have a treasure inside of you. Do you know what it is? Youth.”