My first art teacher was my best friend.
She taught me the colours of her eyes, the line of her smile, and in every movement grace.

My first writing teacher was a classmate.
On the bus, we twined together words with our bodies, and spilt poetry from her ink-stained hands.

My first music teacher was an acquaintance.
One word turned to a melody and the melody a concert, and my notes became the birds that she loved...

My teachers, not many, not little, but giants
My teachers are shoulders to stand on and grow.

My years are still few, there's still teachers to learn from
But is it so wrong to want a teacher to teach me the road?