Dear Ms. Cunningham...

I heard of your recent passing and felt a personal loss, even after these 15 years. John Donne’s "Death Be Not Proud" has been replaying in my head over and over... I memorized it for your class. I still have it memorized. There is something I need to say:

Ms. Cunningham, I remember you.

Do you remember me?

I was that awkward boy, the reticent one with the big glasses

And the oh-so carefully parted hair sitting lucidly in the last row.

I was partial to the back row,

Always rooted in that farthest furrow of chairs

Where I was cultivated by your careful intent.

I was a quiet kid then…but that was okay in your class,

Because you said 'Still waters run deep'.

Remember me now?

I was caught in my turbulent teens,

A time of sturm and angst…but that was okay too,

Because you said, 'Rough seas make good sailors'.

As adolescent quandaries and questions milled through my mind

I knew that I would find my way through,

Because you taught 'All the darkness in the world ...

Can not extinguish the smallest candle.'

When I felt the draw of society to become a widget

In its great scheme to norm and conform… I aimed higher.

Because you read 'Be not simply good, be good for something.'

You were to us eight who created a Dead Poets Society,

The Emerson to our Whitman…

We were simmering, simmering, simmering…

And you brought our minds to a boil!

Remember me?

It has been a long time, since I heard you read:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

I know now what your darling Mr. Shakespeare meant.

And maybe it is true for some that all our yesterdays

Have lighted fools the way to dusty death.

But not your life,

You, were no walking shadow,

You, were no poor player, strutting and fretting an hour upon the stage.

Your life and influence was humble yet palpable

A desire to open our minds to the classics

By becoming All things, to All student, that by All your means

You might teach some.

Do you remember me now?

I wrote that scratch-paper poem while helping my dad.

I almost threw it away on my way to your class,

Because I could smell my father's employ on the paper

But you didn't care that I was a pig-farmer's boy.

You said I had a real ‘faculty’ for poetry, and asked for another.

I was doubtful when you said the two would win and be published

—but you were right.

Now you remember me...

I’m sorry that I was sick when you arranged my poetry reading

You knew I was faking didn't you.

It was such a large crowd, of Have-it-Alls, and Know-a-Lots.

But I have learned not to be afraid of such hob-goblins anymore.

I am sorry this letter did not make it to you sooner…

but I am not hindered by your death

Just as you are not hindered by life anymore.

But I wanted you to know…

I find my waters run deeper.

Life's rough seas continue to strengthen me.

The love of classic literature you passed on

Still keeps my mind at a boil.

Our paths may have intersected for a finite moment

But, know this Ms. Cunningham,

You made an infinite difference in me.