I slipped half of my lunch across the table when I first saw her acting like she was chewing. I persisted after she initially declined, and I started bringing more meals after that. While children giggled and whispered, I remained at her side.
Before she opened up, Amy was quiet. After that, she became intelligent, humorous, sharp, and a pencil artist who once drew a picture of us swinging on the playground. That sketch remained in my notepad like a treasure trove. Then one Monday she suddenly disappeared, leaving her desk empty.
I continued to ponder about her for years after that. One day after surgery, I woke up in a hospital bed to see a nurse checking my intravenous line. “You’ll be alright,” she added with a kind smile. I will never forget the one time you helped me. It took me a second to recognize Amy.
