Teacher

A strange bit of poetry I read recently by someone called Taylor Mali. I don't know if Taylor is famous or a just someone who's trying his luck but I don't care. I liked this verse a lot.
"I make kids wonder,I make them question,
I make them criticize.
I make them apologize and mean it.
I make them write, write, write.
And then I make them read.
I make them spell definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful
over and over again until they will never misspell
either one of those words again.
I make them show all their work in math
and hide it on their final drafts in English.
I make them understand if you’ve got this [brains],
then you follow this [heart],
and if someone ever tries to judge you

by what you make, you give them this [the finger]."

I think back to my teachers and realise that both my favourite teachers are dead, both from road accidents. I feel awful. I'm making new favourite teachers but they're stratospheric, intellectual influences. What is that compared to someone who took a human interest in me and really added to making me, me? I feel like those awful women in movies keening from their grief but the room really did a spin when it came back to me now that both Rani Chandran and Praveena Devarajan are dead. It's suddenly appropriate that winter hasn't left my windows and the ghost of tribune tower is dimly seen through the driving rain and fog. 

I'm going to be dead someday. I can't begin to fathom it. Especially now. I feel so alive and I can't really get my head around the fact that this factory is going to be shut down. Oh bother, I can't even express myself. I bet Anais Nin would have gone prose poetry on this. Well, too bad. She's dead too.