Word: Keeper
Word courtesy: John Watson - Horror Author’s Saturday image prompt inspired me to weave this one. I looked at this photo and thought — that is not a monster. That is a keeper.
The story I have with it:
When I hear the word keeper, I think of my Geography teacher from school.
She was one of those teachers who could silence a classroom simply by entering it.
Always serious. Always composed. Never hanging around the staff room chatting. Never trying to be the “cool teacher.”
Every few minutes in class, after explaining a concept, she would ask in her distinctive voice:
“Could you follow?”
The irony was that I often could not.
But I was far too intimidated to raise my hand and admit it.
As a child, I was slightly obsessed with understanding people. And because she revealed so little of herself, she became a mystery I wanted to solve.
Who was she outside school?
Did she ever laugh?
Did she ever get angry?
Did she eat chocolates?
My subconscious apparently took the assignment very seriously.
One night, I dreamt that she gave me a giant chocolate bar for scoring well in a Geography class test.
It was such a vivid dream that I spent the entire next day telling everyone about it.
Unfortunately, one of my classmates had more courage than common sense and told her.
I was convinced my life was over.
Instead, she smirked.
Just slightly.
Then walked away.
The next day, she entered class carrying a chocolate bar.
The same one from my dream.
And in front of everyone, handed it to me.
I do not remember the lesson she taught that day.
I only remember the feeling.
The toughest teacher I knew had somehow stepped into my dream and brought something back with her.
After that, our equation changed.
Not dramatically.
She never became warm or expressive.
There were no long conversations.
No special treatment.
But I always felt seen.
I studied harder for her exams. Worked harder in her class. Wanted her approval in a way I could never explain.
Years later, I realised what had actually happened.
She had quietly taken custody of my confidence.
She became one of those rare adults who make you believe you are capable of more than you think.
Many years have passed since then.
She has retired.
I have grown up.
I have sat in her living room, eaten meals she cooked, and known her far beyond the walls of a classroom.
But even today, when she gives that familiar little smirk, a part of me is transported back to that Geography classroom.
Still waiting for a chocolate.
Still hoping I have done well enough.
And still grateful that someone I once feared became one of the keepers of my childhood.