Page 27 - Demo

Mrs. J. moved back to West Virginia right after my time with her. My twelve-year-old self couldn’t comprehend why she would choose to leave. Now I realize that her family drew her back. Her family was, of course, more important than forty twelve-year-olds in Western New York. But I was devastated. I had planned on sharing my writing with her throughout high school and going to her for advice until I couldn’t anymore. Who was going to tend my garden now?
She came back for me though. A year or two after she left, during the summer, she planned her visit so it would correlate with my birthday. My mom surprised me by taking me out to my favorite restaurant and I was met with my favorite teacher. She hugged me close and brought me gifts and we talked at this restaurant for hours. She took an entire afternoon out of her visit with her family to surprise me for my birthday. And it meant the world to me. It still does. I’m sure my conversation at freshly fourteen-years-old was not exactly riveting for someone with a master’s degree. But she made me feel like the smartest, funniest, most eloquent person in the room.
I miss her most on days like these, when I am writing. I don’t remember anything specific she taught me, no special tricks or words of wisdom. Only that she told me that she was sure I would be an author someday. We have kept in touch all these years, texting about major life events. I know she still cares about me, but I wonder if she thinks about me as often as I think of her, a lone flower in her expansive garden. I just hope that someday I can prove her right and achieve the paper dream she cultivated in me.