To a rose...

All what she went through, I probably would never and cannot fathom in this 18 year old of mine. What is life, what is death, she probably had her taste of both. The sweet and the bitter, though only present in my life only for less than a year, i still remember, the very first lesson she thought us. She got us all to sit down on the floor of this "renaissance room" slightly dark and fully wood, smelt a tad bit weird, and we sat on the floor, close up to her. Yes She sitting down in the large red chair, and took out the board and wrote her name across, Rosalind Gurupatham and her Identity these are the words i remember her saying.  also her constant repetition of Lear being crystalized again and again and again probably engraved in my mind. As she sat there in the wheelchair, in LT 1 or 2 teaching us, not just lessons but seeing her life itself was a lesson, a lesson to live to my fullest, no matter what may come, to be able to stand strong on my two feet, she was probably the strongest in that wheelchair though her two feet unable to move, she managed to impact each and everyone of us, in her special way. Just seeing her around was a charm, a divine moment, every moment spent with her was probably God given, an extra breath. The way she taught us King Lear, really opened the way i saw Lear, maybe because of her handicap, perhaps it was just how she had managed to develop so many many thoughts about Lear. Living such a fruitful life, it opened her mind to so many inspiring thoughts. It was just the way that she lived everyday, everyday that we saw her, it was just beautiful to see her, this woman, though handicapped, sickly was still able to come to school and be with us, and most of all be with the teachers who had been so close to her. She had been there from the beginning and now that it has come to an end, she has gone to a better place. But she will always be, our Miss G, our teacher with such perseverance made her life, so much, just so much.    


The writing on the board 
my first memory, the picture still fresh in my mind 
but like the ripened fruit plucked 
it is sweet 
pleasant to the eater.

mirrors 
a hundred figures 
but only one, sitting there, still 
silent, her.
 
Only now a reflection, can i ever be like her 
to forget? memory etched in the crystal,foggy images. 
 
the colored life of her 
she, a sculptor, a 
post-it of the journey of life.   
strongest at her weakest
 
she has gone, a whisper, a violin playing atop a roof 
the fiddler

the rose, the christian, the teacher, the snake 
sharp yet lovely 
that rose, that flower of a life. a mystery 
but one day, one day we will meet 
again, in paradise... but always playing in our hearts
resound resound.