Tribute

My teacher, mentor and friend passed away last Friday night. She'd been sick for seven years - in fact, the day after her service marked the seven year anniversary of her original diagnosis. She taught English for 39 years in Miami - that must translate into thousands upon thousands of students - five in my family alone. In a world where we all want to make a difference, I can honestly say that this woman did make the difference in the lives of an incredible amount of people. That's quite a legacy, indeed. Something for all us to aspire to, I think: making an impact.
Nonetheless, I'm sad. I will miss her, although I can hear her voice in so many things that I do.

Below is a poem I wrote for her six years ago. Somewhere, in her things, is a copy.

Shrub

for Mrs. Kjos, and for Marianne

When I was 14, she told me
I was her favorite shrub.
I wore lime green socks
and had yet to discover
anti-frizz conditioner.
I believed I alone could save
the world, and she never
told me that I couldn’t.
When I was 15, she hurt her back
and left us with weeks worth of
substitutes. I realized her humanity,
and was disappointed by it. But
when she returned her jet-black hair
was never again out of place, her
clothes permanently pressed into
the folds of my memory.

Thirteen years later, I visit her
in the hospital and see grays
shining through. The gown is not
Donna Karan and her makeup
is at home. She’s still finding meaning
in unlikely places: velcro soup, the patio
of her room that overlooks a garden,
the rhetoric of cancer. I want to believe
I can fix this, but instead I keep it light,
regaling her with tales of my own students,
the pencils in my ceiling, the children
who live like weeds. She tells me
she’ll be fine, and I carry her hope
in my pocket all the way to the car.
I click into reverse and glance down
at my socks. Green.