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She was Auntie Mame, Cher, Bette, and Liza with a Z to those amongst us.
Children clamored for her attention, twirling and whirling in her presence.
She was happy, joy, enthusiasm, personified, if you got to know her, you were delighted.
She was the most upbeat, positive person I had ever met, and I had no idea how damned depressed she was.

No one knew that she felt hated by her own mother, who resented everything she said, did or wore.
No one knew how sad she felt every second of her childhood, convinced she was too fat to love.
No one knew how much rage she was holding bottled inside, hidden away deep in the recesses of her heart,
Enraged that other children’s mothers hugged and kissed them, and said, “I love you.”

At school she was the epitome of happiness. Everyone knew when Mrs. T. came into a room, the party began.
I loved her in kindergarten, and kept loving her throughout my entire childhood and adult life.
She was music, she was marching, she was sunshine, she was joy, she was always volunteer of the year,
And she did not believe in volunteering.
 which I always thought was curious.
She was the grand marshall of the parades, the head of every committee that helped children.
One time when she wanted a particular teaching job, she called every member of the school board, and told them to give it to her,
And they did,
Because they all loved her 
Because she had been their favorite teacher,
Because she was puppy spice, and cinnamon kitten, and bunny love.
So they gave it to her,
But she did not take it
Because she could not believe in herself,
Because no one had ever believed in her,
Until they did,
But by then,
She did not see it.
She was a child herself, having never having a real childhood.
And no one knew.

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