Imprints

    My favorite college professor was Joe. Not only was he a friendly face during the two worst semesters of my entire college career, he was also a voice of encouragement. I dreaded taking Rhetorical Theory & Application, but it was partly because of him that that ended up being my favorite class of the entire semester, and ultimately, my favorite class from college.

    His calm yet determined personality combined with his evident pride for my work gave me the courage to push myself in essays where I never would have dared push myself before. His advice and tips are forever stuck in my brain: whenever I use the word "myriad," I hear his voice telling me the right way to use it. He once told me that he always enjoyed reading my work, and it remains one of the greatest compliments I've ever received. When I thanked him for everything in an email during my senior year, his response was typically sarcastic and beautifully genuine all at once, and to this day, it gives me comfort.

    Even after I no longer took classes from him, if I ever saw him around campus, he'd chat with me. Or gently tease me—pretend to throw a dart at me or make a sarcastic comment about the book I was reading. When I got caught in a rainstorm and ducked into the nearby building to wait it out, he passed by and laughed to see me soaked through.

    I'll stand at work and listen to my coworkers talk to patrons on the phone, and my mind wanders to the rhetoric of their conversations. I can't help but think about how I could analyze their choice of words, their tone, the way they answer and hang up. I also can't help but think about how Joe would have analyzed their conversations as well, remembering how casually he'd explain an aspect of rhetoric that normally would have left my mind reeling but somehow made sense when he talked about it.

    Joe has forever left a mark on my life for the better. I don't think I'll ever forget him as long as I live. And he barely remembers my name.

    Which is to be expected. When you have hundreds of students every single semester, they tend to blend together. Honestly, I was just impressed that he actually did remember my name the last time we spoke, as well as the classes I took from him. He didn't remember where I was from, whether or not I'd graduated, or any of our inside jokes. It didn't hurt my feelings, but it did make me think.

    I have random little quotes from him written in the margins of the notes from his classes, and I retell his stories to my friends and family; and he probably couldn't remember what apartment complex I used to live in, even though we discussed it multiple times. His lasting impression on my life is not at all equal to the impression I've left on his, if there even was one.

    And he isn't the only person.

    In sixth grade, I met with a girl named Grace. We were in the same class, and we bonded over a highly energetic and silly game of Capture the Flag in P.E. As we walked back inside, she beamed at me and said, "I'm so glad to have you as my friend, Odessa." Less than two months later, she'd moved away, and I haven't seen her since.

    I don't remember much about her. I vaguely remember what she looked like, and I know that we shared a love for Harry Potter. I remember being so distraught when she told me she was moving—she was only the second friend I ever had move away. We never hung out after school, mostly because our friendship was so short-lived, but in class and at recess, we enjoyed every second together.

    Does Grace remember me? Does she remember that day in P.E.? Did she feel that empty hole in her heart when she moved away? Did she still count me on her list of friends three years later, like I did for her?

    It's been probably around twelve years since I last saw or talked to Grace, and yet, somehow, there's a small part of me that misses her. For whatever reason, I felt a connection to her that was cut far too short. But did she feel that same way at all? Is it possible that maybe she felt the sting even more keenly? Is it possible that Grace still thinks about Odessa Taylor?

    My old coworker Kylee was truly one of my best friends during my junior year of high school. She was hired a couple months after me, and we got along almost instantly. Every shift we worked together was full of laughter and camaraderie. We begged our manager to have a kiosk shift (the outdoor pool entrance) together during summer 2017, and we got it.

    One day, it started raining so hard that we closed the outdoor pools, but Kylee and I were supposed to stay at kiosk, just in case it stopped and we reopened. We sat there and joked and laughed for at least an hour and a half. Another day that summer, we actually went out and got dinner together before going back to my house and watching a movie. After she left, my mom said, "I like her a lot. You have a good friend."

    When she quit, I was devastated. We managed to keep in contact for a while afterwards, but ultimately, we grew apart, and now, we haven't had a conversation in years. She doesn't even follow me back on Instagram. She could have no idea that I still remember her birthday and her wedding anniversary every year, even if I never say anything to her about them.

    Does she remember the time she called me on a weekend, on the verge of tears, to tell me about how the guy she'd been interested in had led her on? Does she still have the picture of us in matching work shirts? Does she remember how we sat outside Rumbi Grill, ranting about everything under the sun? If she passed me on the street, would she run to embrace me like I'm sure I would run to embrace her?

    It overwhelms me sometimes to think about the hundreds of people who have left something on me. Even more overwhelming is to think about the hundreds of people that I may have left something on. Just the thought that there could be someone out there who remembers me for giving them a compliment on their clothes on a day they were feeling insecure...that's crazy to me.

    I once bought a KitKat and left it in a stroller that was sitting outside a classroom at college, along with a quick little note wishing a good day to the exhausted mom I'd seen pushing it earlier. Did she enjoy my gift? Was it an answer to an unspoken prayer? Is she the type of person who doesn't eat candy and thus didn't even enjoy it? Did she pass along that little moment of joy?

    Perhaps the person I think about the most when this thought of imprints crosses my mind is the guy from Donut Falls. It was during a summer in high school, either before my junior or senior year, and I was really starting to feel the pangs of not attending the same high school as my church friends. Being the dramatic teenager I was, I also felt like those friends were doing very little to bridge the ever-increasing gap between us. After hiking Donut Falls, we were all walking together and talking, and the conversation turned to things that I just couldn't get involved in—things that had to do with their high school, their extracurricular activities, their hobbies.

    I subtly slowed down so that they all moved on without me. The fact that not one of them out of a group of at least six turned to see where I'd gone was confirmation to me. I felt that I'd just lost all the friends I'd had since first grade. Morosely, I walked along, lost in my thoughts.

    A man and a woman, probably in their late twenties, soon passed me. They were engaged in conversation, but quite suddenly, the guy made eye contact with me and smiled. It wasn't the typical "grin politely at a stranger" smile—it was a smile that communicated instant compassion. "Hey, you doing okay?" he asked.

    And that was all I needed. It could have ended right then and there and I would have been totally fine. All I'd really been looking for was someone to look at me and smile and ask me how I was. That was it.

    So, I smiled back and said, "Yeah, I'm doing fine."

    But it didn't stop there. Still smiling at me with understanding, he said, "You sure? You just seem really down."

    Dear reader, I could have poured my heart out to this guy. Me. Odessa Taylor, who never reveals her emotions to even her closest friends, could have started crying and telling this guy the oh-so-miserable woes of being a teenager and growing apart from my childhood friends. But I didn't, and the only reason I didn't was because he was looking at me like I had never been looked at before. No—he was seeing me in a way I had never been seen before. He had noticed what my parents, my siblings, my leaders, my friends hadn't noticed, or at least had never let on that they noticed: I was sad. I wasn't myself. I was in desperate need of something.

    Of course, he didn't know any of that. All he saw was a high school kid walking down a well-populated path all by herself, head slightly down, face neutral and maybe even a little droopy. It would've been easy for him to walk past or to just nod and say hi; but instead, he chose to truly acknowledge me.

    I reassured him that I was fine, and he nodded and said, "Okay," still smiling. And a little farther down the path, he passed me in his car. He caught my eye again and waved, that wonderful smile on his face again. I waved and smiled back, and, rejuvenated, I hurried to catch up with my friends. They turned as I approached and smiled. "Odessa, where have you been?!" they cried enthusiastically.

    If I had been truly, truly struggling in that moment, that man would have saved my life. Does he know that? Does he know that, from that moment on, I felt okay about things? Does he have any idea that I think about him often? Does he even remember me? I doubt it. Does he do that often? I so hope he does. I don't really remember what he looked like, but I just remember seeing that smile and feeling instantly calmed. His empathy and kindness are great gifts, and I desperately, desperately hope that he uses them often.

    My life is made up of moments—moments shared with other people and moments kept in my private heart. Moments that plenty of others remember and moments that only I will ever recall. Seemingly small and simple moments that have added up to create the Odessa Taylor here today. Would I be any different today if I'd never met Grace? Probably not. But I did meet Grace, and now she's forever part of the story that's made up my life. So is Kylee. And Joe. And the guy at Donut Falls. So are all my other coworkers, all my teachers and professors, all my roommates, all my classmates, all my church leaders, all my family members, all my friends—even the strangers I might never see again have briefly passed through the very narrow window that is the life of Odessa Taylor.

    And there is no way of knowing what moments will stick with me forever and what moments will fade away like millions that have come before them. Moments with friends that seemed so unimportant to me at the time that I immediately forgot they happened. Moments in classes that I thought I'd remember forever that I couldn't recall if you paid me. Moments that others will cherish the rest of their lives that I was oblivious or indifferent to.

    Nicole might never remember I was the girl who sat next to her and cracked jokes during All-State rehearsals. Debra might never remember that I was her boyfriend's niece, sitting on the living room floor and listening to the "adult" conversation instead of reading Percy Jackson in her room. Peter might never remember that he called me "beautiful and intelligent enough for the both of us" during the one time we chatted on a phone call that wasn't even for me. Joseph might never remember that he made me laugh almost constantly during my first weekend of college.

    But I remember. And even if none of those events were important enough to change me, they were moments that apparently had enough value that my brain decided to keep them around. Or maybe I just have a brain that can't decide what's valuable and what isn't and thus keeps everything, just in case it comes in handy later on. Either way, I have those moments imprinted on me, and I hope to be better able to recognize those moments as they come my way in the future rather than just after they've happened and gone.

    There's a whole world to find out there—and in you, too, believe it or not. So good luck.

    "Find eternity in each moment." -Henry David Thoreau