“Tú eres mi otro yo / Si te hago daño a ti, me hago daño a mí mismo / Si te amo y respecto, me amo y respeto yo.”

My daughter, Ellie, texted me these words on Monday, as she recalled reciting them with her classmates every day at the start of Harris Levinson’s Spanish classes at Vashon High School. She graduated from the school in 2017.

In English, the poem — an excerpt from Luis Valdez’s Mayan-inspired poem, “Pensaminento Serpentino” — roughly translates to “You are my other self / If I hurt you, I hurt myself. / If I love and respect you, I love and respect myself.”

For his students, saying these words in unison is only one of many indelible memories of Harris, who left a lasting legacy of joyful community on Vashon.

I can only think that he would like us all to remember those words now when we think of him.

It has been my sad duty in the past few days to report on Harris’s death in a climbing accident — an enormous loss for Vashon, just as his gifts to the island during his lifetime were enormous.

Like so many others, I knew Harris and admired him greatly. He gave Ellie and her brother, Isaac, a rich second language that Isaac uses every day in his current work in as a cook in a Boston kitchen. Ellie, while not a daily speaker, can also speak and understand Spanish with some degree of skill, and she reached for the language while grieving the death of her beloved former teacher.

Last fall, I sat with her in Vashon High School’s darkened theater, and watched Harris perform in what turned out to be his last role onstage, in Drama Dock’s “The Hatmaker’s Wife.” In the lobby after the show, Ellie ran up and gave him a hug. I remember their smiles.

I last saw Harris not very long ago. He was typically exuberant as he yelled hello to me and my husband, Tom, while racing across the yard of the school grounds to go play pickleball with his friends, some of whom are my friends, too.

I know so many others are flooded with these kinds of memories now.

That’s life, and that’s loss, in a small town. And the presence of Harris’s sudden absence feels overwhelming on Vashon.

What can we do now? No doubt, he would want us to remember the way he lived — deeply engaged in community, respecting others and showing the kindness we all want to shown by others. And having fun. Harris was extremely big on fun, after all.

Strawberry Festival is around the corner, of course. There are bands to be heard, fair food to be eaten, parades to attend, friends and neighbors to greet, and, if we are good to ourselves and take a break every once in a while, cool water to sip under the shade of a tree in Ober Park.

It’s in the quiet, still moments that Harris and others we have loved and lost sometimes come to visit us, and it can be a deep comfort to remember their lives and all the lessons they taught us.

Lessons like the ones Harris instilled in his students: “Tú eres mi otro yo.”

May his memory be a blessing.

Elizabeth Shepherd is The Beachcomber’s former editor and current reporter.