The letter was short.
Eleanor wrote about my mother.
How brave she was.
How stubborn.
How tired.
How much Eleanor regretted allowing distance to grow between them.
Then came the final paragraph.
If the Meridian ever opens its doors again and you somehow find yourself standing inside it as an adult, remember this:
Buildings do not make communities.
Money does not make communities.
Names on plaques certainly do not make communities.
People deciding to keep showing up for one another make communities.
Your mother taught me that.
I hope one day someone teaches Harlan too.
I laughed.
Harlan sighed.
“She really did enjoy criticizing me in writing.”
“She had concerns.”
“Apparently.”
I folded the letter.
“Thank you.”
“For giving you something addressed to you?”
“For not opening it.”
He looked toward the stage.
“That was the easiest promise in this whole building.”
There was something I had wanted to ask him for months.
