Never To Be Forgotten

For you, the first to teach me poetry, I wrote a little poem at age nine. I don't remember writing any more till I had you for English in ninth grade. One day when we were talking at your desk, I saw a single laminated sheet. I took a closer look and realized the childish cursive on the page was mine. You'd saved "My Winter Poem" all those years and brought it as my gift. I almost cried. I smile now as I vividly recall this scene from over fifty years ago. As teacher and librarian, you earned the praise of all. We recognized your love of students, language, books, and our small school. We knew how much you wanted us to learn. If I had never told you how I felt, beyond that day when I was just a teen, I'd be without excuse, but I did claim the opportunities to give you praise. In our last conversation at a school reunion just a few short years ago, I told you how I often think of you when choosing just-right words for poetry. I recently shared memories of you with others who held you in high regard. We wiped our tears and said our last good-byes to one who taught much more than books and rules.