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An Undelivered Thank You
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An Undelivered Thank You |
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Secret Whisper Member
since 2001-01-25
Posts 298Through the Looking Glass |
An Undelivered Thank You I scrawled my thank-yous in childish handwriting and haste, and thanked you for your teaching and for all the things you had given me in the three short years we had known one another. I said that I would pray that you would make it out to the West Coast, to the forests you always loved, and that I would never have another teacher like you, and I did not lie. But amidst all the empty words that I wrote, I left out the only thing that I had truly wanted to tell you: The first day I met you, you sang ‘Go Ask Alice’ and I was condescending, because I am always condescending at first in my immature timidity. But in a moment, I trusted you and learned what true love of knowledge was. And for three years, you were my teacher and I was your pupil. I listened, I learned, I idolized. I idolized you for all that you knew, and all that you wanted to show me. I had meant to leave class quietly that day; it was the end of a long month -- a long life -- of wearisome events and horrifically creative fantasies I had created in my mind. I was tired, in more than any physical sense, and I could not lift my head high enough to see above the floor. I knew that the world and the future held no more for me than more pain, weariness and strife. And so that day, I was determined to walk from your class one last time, unabated, unregretful, and ready to shock an unsuspecting world with what I had in mind. Three tables back, and next to the window. My thoughts reeled, as I sat scrawling notes that would be useless to me in a few hours: The tertiary structure of Deoxyribonucleic acid. Is there a God. Extracting the DNA causes the production of Chloroform. Will God care. Name your Hypothesis before beginning the extractions. What will death taste like. And don’t forget to wash your hands clean, if you breathe it, you die. It’s all a matter of time. The bell rang, to usher out the herd that it had only eighty-five minutes ago ushered in, and I rose from my cold, plastic, orange chair and began gathering my things. I was careful. I was careful that my classmates didn’t see the stainless steel razor tucked into my red notebook. It was brand new, perfectly made stainless steal, metallic shine, and guaranteed to do a wonderful dissection. I would make sure it did. I piled my things into my bag that was already splitting at the seams and walked purposefully to the door. I was always the last one to leave, and you were always behind your desk with your eyes fixed on some papers or tests. I was ten steps away from never coming back, when you looked up and said, “Alice...” I was startled, but reassured my self that it was probably just another comment on a good paper or a well-drawn diagram. I did do good work, though it brought me no joy to know so. “Alice, I’m worried about you.” I could feel the breath seep from my lips, and my heartbeat became slow like an instinctual defense. It wasn’t the statement, but the concern I heard in you that scared me. Worried about me? It was like the lights coming on and the cockroaches scurried to find a hiding spot. I had to hide. I flashed you my most genuine-faux smile and gave you the genuine-generic response that I give to every inquiry about my well-being. “I’m fine.” It wasn’t a lie, per say, as much as protecting those who may not wish to know the truth. But you didn’t listen to my lie. You held my eyes and searched my face for the truth that perhaps you never saw, the imminent danger that waited for me in just a few short hours. And so you talked, and I listened, intently as if what you had to say were the Word of God. And we talked for only a few moments. You didn’t say anything earth shattering, and I didn’t break out in tears (though I may have longed to for years), but you told me that you were concerned for me and that you saw great potential in me. Great Potential. No one had ever told me that they saw anything in me, let alone potential. And more than this, no one had ever shown concern for me, I was always hunky-dory in everybody’s mind, they truly believed that I was “fine” even when I fingered the stainless-steel blade. I stared back at you, wondering what it was that compelled you to stop me this day, and not the hundreds you had seen me before, or why you did not wait until tomorrow as if there always would be a tomorrow. But you spoke to me, sincerely spoke to me. As if I were a human being, valuable, and not just a collection of flesh and bone. “Thank you.” I smiled, a small but genuine smile, and walked out of your room, tossing my red notebook into the recycling… I didn’t need notes; I knew everything that would be on the test the next day, and I knew that I would be there to take it. I thanked you for everything that I could fit on the tiny page I had prepared for you, and scrawled: Mr. Leventhal across the envelope. But with all my heart I wish that I had thanked you for that which meant the most to me; the thing that made you truly a hero, rather than simply my teacher. You said that it felt as if you were losing a daughter when I left, and I felt as if I were losing much more than a father, but the prints that you have made in my life, will not be undone by the waves of time. Our paths may never cross again, but even if you never know you are my hero, then let the whole world know instead. **To him who will never know.** "I am not alive enough to kill myself." - Mary Ipal [This message has been edited by Secret Whisper (07-23-2002 11:31 PM).] |
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| © Copyright 2002 Alice Lynn Wagner - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Maverick Wolf Member
since 1999-11-13
Posts 94Scandia, MN |
A wonderful, wonderful work. I thoroughly enjoyed the piece and was quite moved. Great work Alice. God Bless. |
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Lady In White
since 2001-02-12
Posts 2799USA |
Sometimes, hero/angels just know... There are special reasons why we are stopped from fulfilling what we think is our "true desire"... and those special reasons usually end up taking us to being in a place where we can be a hero for someone else... pass it on. |
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