I did not think about Ms. Harper again for a long time after writing that memory down.
Life has a way of pulling you forward. Responsibilities stack. Days blur together. Childhood reflections usually stay where they belong, tucked safely behind adulthood.
Until one ordinary afternoon changed that.
I was standing in the checkout line at the grocery store, tired, distracted, scrolling my phone with one hand while unloading items with the other. The conveyor belt hummed. Someone behind me sighed impatiently. Nothing special. Nothing meaningful.
Then my hand brushed against a small plastic bag near the register.
Skittles.
Bright colors shining through thin plastic.
I picked them up without thinking.
And just like that, the world shifted.
Not loudly.
Quietly.
The way memories do when they return without asking permission.
When I got home, I poured them into a bowl and set it on the table. I stood there longer than necessary, staring at the colors like they might rearrange themselves into something familiar.
Red and green sat beside each other.
Perfect.
I smiled before I even realized I was doing it.
Later that evening, my own child climbed onto the couch beside me. Homework forgotten for a moment. Hair still damp from a rushed shower. He leaned his head against my arm the way he always does when he wants closeness but does not want to ask for it.
“Can you read to me,” he said.
Not because he could not read himself.
Because he wanted to be read to.
I hesitated.
The day had been long. Dishes waited. Emails sat unanswered. My body wanted rest more than ritual.
But something in me remembered the carpet. The chairs. The calm voice after lunch.
So I grabbed a book.
I read slowly. Not theatrically. Not perfectly. I stumbled over a few words. My voice cracked once when my throat dried out.
Still, he listened.
He shifted closer.
His breathing changed.
Halfway through, his fingers found the edge of my sleeve and stayed there.
That was when I felt it.
The echo.
I understood then that Ms. Harper had not just taught us how to read.
She taught us how it feels to be held by a moment.
How safety sounds.
How patience looks.
How attention feels when it is given fully.
Teachers do not just teach subjects.
They teach nervous systems to settle.
They teach children that the world can pause.
They teach that someone will show up at the same time, in the same way, day after day.
That consistency becomes a language children understand long before words make sense.
As an adult, I now see what seven year old me could not.
Ms. Harper was probably tired.
Her feet likely hurt by the afternoon.
She probably had papers to grade during lunch and meetings after school and a stack of expectations no one ever saw.
But she still opened that jar.
She still walked the circle.
She still dropped two Skittles into every palm as if it mattered.
Because it did.
That night, after my child fell asleep, I sat alone with the book still open in my lap.
I thought about how many adults walk through life convinced they left no mark.
How many teachers go home wondering if their effort meant anything.
How many moments feel invisible simply because no one applauded them.
The truth is, most of what shapes us happens quietly.
No certificates.
No speeches.
No recognition.
Just repetition.
Just gentleness.
Just showing up again tomorrow.
We do not remember the worksheet.
We remember the warmth.
We remember the tone of voice that told us we were safe.
We remember the teacher who made afternoons feel softer.
We remember the small kindnesses that arrived consistently enough to feel dependable.
Those things settle into us.
They become part of who we are.
Years later, they surface in unexpected ways.
In grocery store aisles.
In bedtime routines.
In the way we speak to children when they struggle.
I do not know where Ms. Harper is now.
She may be retired.
She may be teaching somewhere else.
She may not remember a single one of our faces.
But I wish she could know this.
That she still lives inside people.
That her voice echoes decades later.
That her two Skittles taught something far bigger than sweetness.
She taught presence.
She taught care.
She taught that learning could feel like comfort instead of pressure.
And now, without realizing it, she teaches again through us.
Through every adult who pauses.
Through every parent who reads one more page.
Through every moment when someone chooses gentleness instead of rushing.
That is how teaching really works.
It multiplies quietly.
It spreads invisibly.
It lasts far longer than anyone expects.
If you are a teacher reading this, please hear me.
You are not invisible.
Even when the room feels loud.
Even when the work feels endless.
Even when gratitude does not come back to you.
Someone is carrying you forward.
Someone remembers the way you made the day feel survivable.
Someone remembers the calm you offered when the world was new and confusing.
And one day, maybe decades from now, they will open a book or hear a familiar sound or taste a piece of candy and think of you.
Not because you were perfect.
But because you cared.
And that kind of care does not fade.
It becomes part of who we are.
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