When I set out to write these letters to Heaven, my goal was to put into words the profound impact certain individuals had on my life before departing this world. Austin's was an easy name to add to the list as I am quite certain he had no idea just how important he was to me. He was living proof that small gestures can make a huge difference.
Dear Austin,
I wish that I could shake your hand one last time and tell you these words in person because the truth is that I shook your hand almost daily for over a year and never bothered to tell you how much it mattered.
You weren't my student. Had our paths taken different turns, you may have been someday, but the fact remains that you weren't. I was never your teacher. This is an important aspect in regard to your impact on me. You never had an extrinsic reason to do what you did. Never.
You stopped by my classroom every day. You shook my hand. You talked for a minute or two, and then you always wished me a good day. Always. And always as you were walking away. "Have a good day, Miss Piper," you would call down the hall and wave one hand in the air.
Sometimes there was a second handshake at the end of the short conversation. Just sometimes. But the encounter always started with one. Always. You had a strong, solid handshake. I remember your handshake well.
I don't remember what we talked about each day. I'm sure it wasn't anything of substance as it only lasted a few minutes between classes. But what we talked about isn't really the point. The point, at least to me, is that you took the time to stop and have that short encounter ever single day. You shook my hand every single day. You took a few minutes out of your day to have a quick conversation, and you wished me a good day. Every single day. And I wasn't your teacher. I wasn't anyone special who had any kind of influence over you. I was just a lady standing in the hallway.
I looked forward to those daily encounters. I never told you that then, so I'm telling you now. It made a difference in my day. Maybe you made a point to stop and speak to every adult in the building. I don't know. I never asked (and now don't want to know). I'll just continue in ignorant bliss thinking I was special.
I just wanted you to know it mattered. You mattered. To an adult you barely knew. You mattered. What was probably a small, insignificant gesture that was just a part of who you were continues to matter. Because I remember those daily handshakes and the boy who made a point to wish me a good day. Every. Single. Day.
I wish I would have told you this when you were with us. I can't change that now, but I can write you this message and in it thank you for your manners and your presence and for simply taking the time.
I miss that handshake,
Miss Piper
