She walked in, chalk in hand, a river of light wrapped in lavender scent, not just teaching us “Ek is” and “Jy is,” but what it meant to stand tall in a world that often forgets how to whisper gently. Miss Johnson not just a name on the register, but a rhythm in the corridors. a hymn in the hum of school bells, a mother to the lost ones, a sister to the shy, a friend when the world went silent, a colleague with hands of iron and tenderness, a healer of teenage bruises no one saw. She taught Afrikaans like it was gospel like it could stitch the aching corners of our tongues to the pulse of our ancestors. She made “liefde” feel like home, and “hartseer” feel understood. In her eyes, you were never invisible. She remembered birthdays, heartbreaks, what your favorite song was. She stayed after school not because she had to but because she wanted you to believe you could rise, even if your wings were broken. Miss Johnson didn’t die she became legacy. She became the echo of “Juffrou!” in the dreams of students who now teach their own children what it means to matter. She became the reason someone didn’t give up. She became the line in a poem where the tears start, and the healing begins. So don’t mourn her with silence. Celebrate her with sentences. With stories. With soft-spoken corrections and fierce kindness. Because if you ever met Miss Johnson, you left better. And if you didn’t, read this again and feel her love between the lines.