by Mara S.

When I was sixteen, I learnt that even humans collect long, white, delicate feathers from the angels’ wings. Not everyone accepts them, but this is not a story about denial, but patience.

I remember Eli, my childhood friend, acting ecstatic for being accepted into a voluntary program during the summer. I got in too, but my enthusiasm didn’t match hers, much rather because I only wanted to win a bet I had with my brother. The things I did for winning…

I had never done voluntary work before, let alone with elderly people, but I wanted to prove Michael wrong. I didn’t.

I intentionally skipped the first half of the initial week just because I was nervous and scared of failure.

”You should see the people there!”, Eli tried to persuade me the third time the fourth day I missed. ”They are simply so nice and I get along with them extremely well. Please?”

I couldn’t resist her plea and, on Friday, I made my debut. Everything was… different. But in a good way. I felt like I had entered a community where everyone was friends with everyone. In a few hours I grew closer to a particular person – Miss Nana, I remember her even now, always wearing a green hand watch – and, by the end of the month, the voluntary center became one of my favorite places to be at. It was a gift. From both myself and the elders. I couldn’t touch it, but I could feel it in my heart, growing each stunning day I came there. I have it even now, as I am writing these words, knowing I’ll treasure forever the kindness I had been shown by the ones who needed me, encouraging me to believe in myself