To the teacher who doesn't remember me,

I remember you, and you probably don't even know it.

I remember my seventh grade honors language arts class very vividly. I remember your desk was in the far corner of the room near the old-school latching windows, and I remember your warm laugh when I or one of my peers said something witty in class. I remember thinking how beautiful you were with your polished, above-the-shoulders brunette hair and your twinkling eyes that matched your toothy, gleaming smile. I remember the many giggles and laughing fits and discussions that took place in your room as the early-afternoon sun poured in onto that beige tile. Yet, those aren't even the important things I remember from being in your classroom for that one short year.

Most of all, I can so easily recall your encouragement and nurturing of my passion for creative writing and English in general. I still have the folder I used for your class with three bunnies driving a pink convertible on the cover that you laughed at, and I even still kept my graded essays and rough drafts of everything: poems, journal prompts, and everything in between. Every so often, I open up the Rubbermaid container in the corner of my room that contains the remnants of my early teenage middle school self; there within that folder that always sits on top of the many diaries and doodles of yesteryear. On the many papers contained within it, your curly, cursive handwriting still remains, appearing as new as any college essay I've received more recently. Within your constructive criticism, your urge for me to expand my writing voice, and your ever so eloquent way of wording your thoughts on my writing, I began to find out what it meant to write from the heart and to speak your mind.

So, when I saw you yesterday at my summer job, up on the roller coaster platform, not even realizing it was you until I asked you kindly to wait at the top of the stairs with your husband, I hadn't thought of the year I had you as an educator in quite some time. You asked me about the ride being shut down for the rain that just rolled in over the lake, and I explained our normal procedures for ride shutdowns. And all of a sudden, you smiled and I silently, internally realized who I was talking to. I thought about telling you my name and asking if you remembered me, but I knew that more than likely, after seven years and all of the students you've had, you most likely would not. And yet, as you walked back down the stairs and disappeared from sight, your influence on my passion for writing did not leave my mind.

I suppose I don't really have any way else to summarize these recollections and nostalgia other than two words: thank you. Thank you for once being an every day influence in my life and for living on through the abilities in me that you helped to craft. I really hope to see you again one day so that I can thank you in person. Education in something you are truly passionate about really is a gift, and you were one of the best bearers and crafters of that gift for me.