The news of your passing hit me like a sudden frost—sharp, cold, and unrelenting. For days, my mind has wandered back to that run-down middle school campus, to the figure of you I saw from a distance, kneeling amid the ruins of an old classroom, tapping each brick gently to brush off the dust, salvaging what could be reused. That image, etched in my memory for over twenty years, has never faded; it only glows brighter now, a silent testament to your grit, your frugality, and your unshakable love for the place that held your students and your dream.
You were my homeroom teacher, my first Chinese mentor, and the first person who made me believe words could light up a life. I still vividly recall that public Chinese class, when you asked each of us, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” When your eyes fell on me, I stood up, voice trembling with hesitation, and whispered, “I want to be a middle school teacher—just like you.” You smiled then, a soft, warm smile that felt like sunlight through windowpanes, and said, “That’s the most wonderful dream I’ve ever heard.”
Little did I know, that dream would become my life. I went on to college, then graduate school; I met countless teachers along the way, but none left a mark as deep as yours. You taught me not just how to read poems and write essays, but how to see kindness in hardship, how to hold onto hope when the world feels heavy. Later, when I heard you’d become the principal of our old school, I wasn’t surprised—you’d always poured your heart into education, turning dilapidated classrooms into havens, and guiding generations of students toward brighter futures. You didn’t just lead a school; you built a legacy of love.
We hadn’t spoken much since I left middle school, but this year’s Teachers’ Day felt like a gift. I sent you a message: “Happy Teachers’ Day, Miss Li. Thank you for everything.” Your reply came quickly, warm and proud: “Your career and family are so well-settled. You must be a very happy person.”
I didn’t tell you, Miss Li, that I was drowning then—in pain, in confusion, in the messiness of life. I wanted to believe your words, to live up to the “happy person” you thought I was. Now, I wish I’d told you the truth. I wish I’d said, “I’m struggling, but your voice still keeps me going.” I wish I’d had one more chance to say how much you mean to me.
You retired just recently, ready to rest after a lifetime of giving—and then you were gone. They say there’s no pure land in this noisy world, but I hope heaven is different for you. I hope there are no more ruins to clear, no more worries to carry. I hope there’s warm light, soft wind, and endless quiet—all the peace you deserved but rarely had here.
I grew up to be you, Miss Li. I stand in front of my own students now, trying to teach them not just knowledge, but kindness and courage—just like you did. Every time I smile at a hesitant student, every time I encourage a dream, I’m carrying your light forward.
Farewell, my dearest teacher. Thank you for planting a seed in my heart, for turning a shy girl’s vague wish into a lifelong mission. I’ll keep your dream alive, and I’ll keep telling my students about the amazing woman who once knelt in ruins, picking up bricks—and picking up our futures, too.
May you rest in eternal peace.
With endless gratitude and love,
Your Student
