Sometime last term, I gave my students an assignment to write a poem. When they submitted their work, I was marking through them until I got to one particular poem that stopped me. It was deep. It was emotional. It was written with so much maturity that I knew immediately that there was no way a child wrote it. I called the student aside and asked him who wrote the poem. He did not lie. He told me his father wrote it for him. Since that day, something strange has been happening to me. I have been giving my students more poetry assignments, not because of the curriculum, but because I want to read that boy’s poems. Each time, the poems come back even more beautiful than the last. His father writes with so much depth, pain, love, and understanding of life. It feels like he pours his soul into every line. At night, in my bedroom, I take out the poem scripts and read them again. Sometimes more than once. I don’t even know what this man looks like. I have never met him. I don’t know his voice. But through these poems, it feels like I know him. And if I am being honest with myself, it feels like I am slowly falling in love with him. This Christmas holiday, those poems are what kept me company. While others were celebrating, traveling, and posting pictures, I was rereading poems written by a man I do not know, finding comfort in his words. Now I am confused and slightly worried about myself. Is this harmless admiration for good writing, or is it something deeper? Do you think I need professional help, or is this just loneliness mixed with beautiful poetry?