I started volunteering for a senior meal delivery service during my semester break. It was simple: drop off the food, check in for a minute, move on. No pressure. No deep conversations. Or so I thought.
Her name was Lita. Ninety-five, soft voice, always wore pastel cardigans, and had a little dog named Poppy who sat proudly on her walker like it was a throne. She only ever asked me to do one thing—open her yogurt for her. “My hands are on strike,” she’d say with a wink.