I still have that feeling sometimes when I walk past a school. I look for the man with the mop. I wonder how many other people are out there, quietly doing the work that keeps everyone else from falling apart.

I guess the irony is that I taught English for twenty-six years, and the most important lesson I ever learned came from a janitor who never said a word. I spent my whole career trying to teach children how to read the world, but I never learned how to see it.

I think about Lily sometimes. She’s grown now. She doesn’t remember the backpack. But I do. I remember it every single time I see a piece of string or a needle.

I just wish I had said thank you. I wish I had stopped him in the hallway just once. I wish I had looked at him, really looked at him, and told him that I saw what he was doing.

But I didn’t. I just kept walking. And now, he’s gone.