I’ve never really cared much for the elderly. In some ways, I’ve always pitied them. I never understood why people found them so adorable or so interesting. They are just people after all- old people, at that. However, it seems that I’m never able to escape their presence, even at my Aunt's house, who owns an in-home caregiving center in Phoenix, Arizona.

Ever since I was young, I was exposed to the dull and unflattering life of a caregiver: constantly surrounded by individuals with pale skin contoured around a skeletal shape, their bones unable to support the full weight of their flaccid skin. As a child, I could never find peace with the repetitious click, click, click, of the wheelchairs and strollers that the old women guided around the tile floors. My mom herself had also created a living managing a home care system right in our own home whilst I and my sister were children; I interacted with individuals more than twenty times my own age rather than two to three year old children like a normal kid would.

So I guess, in a sense, it’s entirely logical that I would once again end up helping my aunt with her elders when she needs to run errands. My mom calls it “babysitting,” and I’m not one to argue. I’m all alone on this job except for the lady in the living room, who does the tasks that I can’t do such as lifting the young ones onto the toilet to do their business like a child and taking them back. I suppose it’s appropriate, having been born into a world not understanding the predicament you’re in, and exiting the world once again incapable of performing the most intrinsic acts. I can gladly say I am not thoroughly excited about decaying to the point where I need to depend on someone to take care of me, having to perceive the world through eyes blurred with the effects of constant medication and long-since expired memories. Never once sober in this lifeless façade.

I’m aroused from my mindless babble by a chorus of "Caroline?" that carom off the walls into my thoughts. I gently walk over to the table, a plethora of multi-colored pieces scattered across the surface haphazardly.

“Caroline’s at the store, Gloria. She’ll be right back, okay?” I’m careful to articulate each word with the utmost clarity, repeating it twice to ensure she hears me.

“Well, I’m going to bed then… be a darling and refill my water cup,” she croaked, and then clacked away as I went to refill her sippy cup.

Striding into her room, I set down her water and caught a glimpse of a photograph on her bedside table. Gloria had apparently noticed my interest and smiled warmly at me, gesturing to the battered armchair adjacent to her bed. 
“Ah, so you’ve met my daughter. You remind me a lot like her, actually. Take a seat, make yourself at home.” Cautiously, I perched myself on the edge of my seat.

“Really? What’s her name?”

At that question, she proceeded to paint a picture of her daughter’s life for me, excitedly gesturing in the air and letting me see snippets of their relationship. I leaned forward and nodded ever so often.

I had never seen someone as animated as she was that evening, telling stories about her daughter and her life. I listened to her adventures ecstatically for almost two hours until she decided that she needed to rest. Before I had talked to Gloria, I didn’t think much of the elderly, but talking to her made me realize how much these people had actually lived when they were my age. I’ve met people who had fought as German soldiers in World War II, who had experienced the early plantation life, who had lived as flappers and loved as Juliet had, and people who had been the first to buy chocolate chips. My experiences with older souls have also made me realize that I should learn to see through another’s perspective before making assumptions about them. Being able to experience life through another's eyes is an event I never had expected before.

As I walk out the door into the entryway, I look back and smile, knowing that next time I can once again learn from these wonderful souls.