The Magpie's Grotto

English is my second language, albeit I learnt it young. My parents put me into one-on-one classes with a retired private-school English teacher at her house.

I remember the first time we met. The room she taught me in was delightfully cosy, with stacks of books, newspapers, and a random assortment of goods everywhere. At times you’d come across a vagabond button or two, it felt like a magpie’s grotto. The room was autumn-hued, and perhaps that is why I often associate safety with autumn. There was an old piano to the left with a strange grain that reminded me of pressed walnuts. And the comedically tiny, well-loved square mahogany study table stood in the middle of the room - it almost looked a little out of place amidst the rustic, ordered chaos.

She had a slight limp and hummed a little tune as she entered - she had a voice that reminded me of my musically inclined maternal grandmother. Her knowing smile carried the comfort of freshly baked sourdough smeared with hot butter, and she smelled like warm tea and barley sugars. I remember feeling held by her soothing presence. I can still see her pulling out the piano stool from under the study table and beckoning me to sit down so we could begin our lesson, her glasses hanging around her neck on a slightly tarnished silver chain.

Under her tutelage, it felt as though she gently took my hand in hers and showed me how to paint the vast worlds and characters I carried within, using words. She nourished my love for contemplation with authentic praise and the occasional well-deserved frown, and encouraged my goofy fixation with peculiar onomatopoeias. Through play, she taught me structure and grammatical rules. I fell in love with the English language because of her.

Little did I know that I would reconstruct that little room, and her avatar, in my mind whenever I needed to retreat from the world to seek solace during the most turbulent moments of my life.

I ended up topping English in high school. I thought of her as I walked across the stage to receive my award.

I recently returned to the city where she lived and discovered that she had passed away four years ago. I missed her by four years. I ended up walking outside and sitting alone to process it. I never got to say thank you, as who I am now, for everything she did for me.

I read in her obituary that they called her a “valued teacher”. I had to chuckle quietly at how much heavy lifting the word “valued” had to do. She was an attuned teacher who inspired both love and respect for the English language in the hearts of curious little children.