When I was fifteen, and sad and angry and frustrated in the way that many fifteen-year-old girls are, I was placed in Mr. Higg's tenth grade, period 3 English honors class. The class was horrific. It seemed that nobody took him seriously; everyone wanted to joke around and nobody wanted to actually do the work. He would talk about this class with mild disdain for years after. You could tell he would get frustrated. He loved what he did, and he wanted his students to learn. Some days he had the patience of a saint. Some days he seemed like he hated almost everyone in the room.

But he didn't.

I sat in the front right corner of his classroom, up against the wall. I was quiet-- just like in all my other classes. I kept to myself. I always tried my hardest to blend in, to not draw any attention to myself, to do the bare minimum, get through the day, and go home. My teachers, for the most part, complied. I was rarely called on. I was rarely acknowledged unless I called attention to myself. But not in Higg's class. The first instance I can remember of him "checking in" with me was after a quiz. I had a headache-- as I often did, headaches are a common side effect of depression-- and had my hand holding my head up on the desk as I wrote my answers in. As I handed him my paper at the end of class, he said quietly, "Are you okay?" I assured him I was, that I just had a headache, but thanks for asking.

It was a simple moment-- one that, I imagine, most would forget. But I was going through a rough patch, and he cared enough to ask if I was okay because he could see something was wrong. He didn't make a big deal out of it. He didn't call any unnecessary attention to me. He just... checked in.

And he did this with many of his students. Over the past week, I've been reminded of just what a huge support he was to so many of us. For someone who absolutely despised sentimentality, he was a caring guy. He was a friend to many of us-- opening his classroom door to all before and after class, sometimes for hours, to just sit and hang out and discuss comic books and superheroes and the latest films. He was the most popular teacher in the school; in my four years at East Providence High School, I'd only ever encountered one person who disliked him.

He was my teacher recommendation on my application to RYLA, the Rotary program that has become such a huge part of my life. He helped me my senior year of high school and freshman year of college to start a community service club at the school-- a project that flopped in the end, but that meant so much to me at the time. He was supportive of all my ambitions-- he told me I could do it, and he helped as much as he could.

And, even more important to me than that, he encouraged me to write.

In middle school, I had an English teacher who told me I was a terrible writer. She said my fiction made no sense and failed me on a creative writing assignment. It hurt because I loved to write. I rarely showed anyone my work after that-- and especially never a teacher. I tried to float by on any creative writing assignments I had with minimal comment.

In his tenth grade class, he assigned a few writing projects. He always gave me positive feedback, complimented me on my writing style, and encouraged me to do more. Around the same time, I discovered the vast world of literary magazines and how to get your work published. I wrote a few short stories-- the most well developed being a piece called "Winter's Mist"-- and asked him to read them over and give me any feedback if he could. He welcomed the idea, and just a day or two later he returned the copies to me with his feedback. Before giving me my copy of "Winter's Mist" back, he said in a rare tone of genuine sentimentality peppered with awkwardness at the idea of being sentimental, "This is really good." I was beaming for the rest of the day.

And even when I received rejection emails-- or worse, no emails-- he still encouraged me to practice, to improve, and to try again. I always imagined that one day, when I finally finish the long-running novel I've been working on, I would give him the manuscript to look over before sending it off to be published.

Unfortunately, I can't ever do that now. In the past week, I've been overcome by a feeling of anxiety and remorse. There were so many things I was planning on doing-- planning on writing my book, planning on reaching out to see how he was doing, planning to visit if I could-- but I never actually got around to any of them, because I had a busy life and I would often lose track of important things, and because he was sick and had pulled away from his former students while he tried to recover.

To say that my heart broke when I learned of his passing last Tuesday is an understatement. I was at work when I saw the news, and I spent the last three hours of my shift crying quietly in my office, trying not to lose it. I just couldn't believe it. It didn't feel real.

That's how the entire community has felt ever since. It just doesn't seem real. It feels like a bad dream-- a bad dream where someone you love dies and there's nothing you can do about it. A bad dream with the realization that all those plans you were trying to make-- the plan to write, the plan to talk, the plan to visit-- were now never going to come to fruition because he was gone. You missed your shot.

Higg had been ill for most of his life, but he did such a good job of hiding it. I didn't know he was sick until a year after I was his student when some of my friends were in his eleventh-grade classes. And I knew he hadn't been doing too great. That was why he wasn't responding to students, so we wouldn't see him while he recovered-- or at least that's what I imagine.

The last time I saw him was in passing, completely by accident. It was the morning after the Fourth of July, 2015, when I arrived at a local diner (admittedly) hungover, complete with last night's makeup smudged across my eyes and a hole in my shirt. We made eye contact. I don't remember if I smiled, or if I was too embarrassed. I didn't say hi. I wish I said hi.

And to think now that I won't ever be able to see him again-- that I won't even be able to go to his service because I'll be out of the state-- hurts. It hurts a lot. It's a mutual hurt, shared throughout the entire community; everyone loved Higg. Everyone is shocked and saddened. Everyone will miss him.

So, Higg, I'll leave you with this. I know you hate sentimentality. I know you're probably rolling your eyes at me right now-- and everyone else for their sappy social media posts, because that's so not your style. I'd like to imagine you reading all the sap, with that look of mock-disgust on your face, wide-eyed and crinkly-nosed, gasping "Mother of God!" I know, under any other circumstances, this would be super awkward for you-- all this attention, that is. But just know that you were the best thing to happen to East Providence. You've touched so many lives, inspired so many people, and you should be proud of that.

I realize that this article is a bit sporadic and all over the place, but that's how I've been since I got the news last Tuesday. Honestly, I've been meaning to write about you for a while-- I just never had the right words. I'm sorry I couldn't find those words until now. I'm sorry I didn't reach out to you again. I'm sorry I didn't say hi in the diner. I'm sorry for a lot of things. But I'm happy you're at peace, and no longer suffering-- as disgustingly cliched as that thought may be. As you would put it-- and did to me, so many times-- "I hope all's golden on your end."

We all loved you very much, Higg, and we're going to miss you a ton. The world lost a great man, but your impact won't soon be forgotten. When I finally publish that book one day, it'll be for you.

In the famous words of Geoff Higginbotham: Take it easy, man.