Eulogy III: A Teacher of Light She did not wear a crown, but you knew she was royal by how she carried gentleness like a flame cupped in both hands. She never spoke of justice, but her kindness corrected the world. In a time when you were learning to vanish— learning to shrink, to fold your truth into corners— she made you feel bright. Not big. Not loud. Just bright. Like someone who could take up space without apology. She didn’t teach from a blackboard, she taught from presence. She taught with the way she lingered after the bell, with the way her car slowed, turned— just to make sure you knew you had not been forgotten. So much of you came from her. From that early whisper of worth, from that delicate mercy you didn’t know you were starving for. Now that you’ve walked back through your hometown, seen the ruins and roots of your own story, you remember her not as a chapter— but as the spark that lit the first page. Benediction: Go in the memory of her wave. Go in the sound of her voice echoing across a playground forty years ago. Go in the warmth she gave freely— and may you give it forward. She loved you in a way the world could not unteach. Now go, and let that love become a light no time can dim. Amen.