In high school, I had an English/History teacher that decorated her classroom in works of art and history. She painted and drew very well and her handwriting was beautiful. Something about the way she conducted herself and her space made me feel that it was a replication of the innate creativity she carried, a mind full and overflowing of wondrous things, like a painting in itself. Something warm and alive, like it was a doorway to another world. I remember what she looks like well enough but I always picture her sitting up in the corner of the room, surrounded by a warmth, gold glow emanating from the walls of this little world she’s crafted. I like to imagine that’s what it looks like inside her mind, that it’s as gentle and interesting. It was the same with how she spoke and what came out of her mouth. An open mind, open ears, open eyes and a laugh that’s fading away in my memories but I know I was fond of. One of those chuckles that isn’t quite a ‘tinkle’ but is just as charming. She was who I admired when I was in high school, and I still do.