Three weeks isn't a very long time. It passes you by in the blink of an eye (I'm such a good poet). Yet so much happens in that blink. Babies are born, tears are shed, people pass from this life, a good hard rain washes everything clean. And just like that, another three weeks has started. When I made the decision to come to Ghana I knew I would change. Very rarely do these people and this culture enter your life and not touch a part of your soul, down to the deepest parts of your heart. It's comforting, natural, clean. Although I knew I would change, it wasn't at all how I expected. I'm still struggling to figure out each part.
In three weeks, if you keep your eyes open, you can collect memories. There are certain ones that will forever be engrained in my mind: the smell of a Ghanaian thunderstorm, so unlike the ones at home with the most pure scent, thunder continuously shaking the ground, each drop stinging your burnt body; the feeling of two toddlers asleep on your lap, breathing so peacefully because they are confined in the arms of someone who loves them; the way Georgina doesn't actually like the red sauce they put on their plain white rice and gives it to her sisters Gifty and Gabby; the way Gifty and Gabby sing little songs and dance while grinning from ear to ear sitting on your lap; when Christopher finally falls asleep in your arms and rests his energetic body on your shoulders; Michel's smile when you walk in and you make eye contact and he runs up to give you a hug and kiss; the way the kids say my name; all of their laughter-each unique and individual; the smell of the little ones when they have just been bathed and put in fresh clothing; the way they smell when they have been bathed and put in not so fresh clothing; the 7 month old triplets looking up at you wondering what is in store for them; when the older kids want to cuddle with you or have you pick them up too; when they slide their heads onto your lap ever so slowly, just in case you might get mad at them for doing it (but you never do); the never empty lap; laughing till your sides hurt while walking a half mile through mud and slime and knee-deep water with the other volunteers almost falling with every step; the hot sun that doesn't quite burn as bad as you think it might; Grace coming up behind me and poking my sides as she passes by; their beautiful smiles; Georgina singing "You Are My Sunshine" with me every day; the longing and desire to go see them while they are in class during the day, or wanting to cuddle with them at night; and last but not least, I will always remember the way every single one of the kids runs up to you at the entrance to the school, climbing up your body like a tree just to get in your arms and tugging on your clothes wanting a hand to hold.
(Disclaimer: I know that was the most grammatically incorrect paragraph in the history of ever)
Those are the moments I will cling to while I am flying home Wednesday night. They are the moments I will cling to when my life gets busier and busier and the time I can devote to others suddenly becomes nonexistent and I need to be brought back to reality. I will long for those moments again in the next few months, but I know that there will be other volunteers here looking after my 41 babies. They are my children, my brothers, my sisters, my friends. And like anyone wants for their loved ones, I want the very best for them. I wish they each had the individual and unique love that they personally deserve, but the work that these volunteers do is amazing. Giving love to each and every child is hard work. It's emotionally exhausting. It's the most rewarding thing I have done with my life yet.
