Dead teacher's advice to a 12-year-old

Sometimes you read something simple and true, but so simple and so true that you wouldn't know how to begin saying it as well yourself.

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"I have seen many boys come and go," she said.  "I've seen some grow up and set roots, and some grow up and move away.  The years of a boy's life pass so fast, Cory."  She smiled faintly.  "Boys want to hurry up and be men, and then comes a day they wish they could be boys again.  But I'll tell you a secret, Cory.  Want to hear it?"

I nodded.

"No one," Mrs. Neville whispered, "ever grows up."

I frowned.  What kind of secret was that?  ...

"They may look grown-up," she continued, "but it's a disguise.  It's just the clay of time.  Men and women are still children deep in their hearts.  They still would like to jump and play, but that heavy clay won't let them.  They'd like to shake off every chain the world's put on them, take off their watches and neckties and Sunday shoes and return naked to the swimming hole, if just for one day.  They'd like to feel free, and know that there's a momma and daddy at home who'll take care of things and love them no matter what.  Even behind the face of the meanest man in the world is a scared little boy trying to wedge himself into a corner where he can't be hurt."  She put aside the papers and folded her hands on the desk.  "I have seen plenty of boys grow into men, Cory, and I want to say one word to you.  Remember."

"Remember?  Remember what?"

"Everything," she said.  "And anything.  Don't you go through a day without remembering something of it, and tucking that memory away like a treasure.  Because it is.  And memories are sweet doors, Cory.  They're teachers and friends and disciplinarians.  When you look at something, don't just look.  See it.  See it so when you write it down, somebody else can see it, too.  It's easy to walk through life deaf, dumb, and blind, Cory.  Most everybody you know or ever meet will.  They'll walk through a parade of wonders, and they'll never hear a peep of it.  But you can live a thousand lifetimes if you want to.  You can talk to people you'll never set eyes on, in lands you'll never visit."  She nodded, watching my face.  "And if you're good and you're lucky and you have something worth saying, then you might have the chance to live on long after --"  She paused, measuring her words.  "Long after," she finished.

--Robert R. McCammon, Boy's Life (1983)