“It is at mine.”
Everyone laughed.
Later, when the others had moved toward the tables, Eleanor asked me to sit beside her beneath a tree.
“Daniel, I need you to promise me something.”
I felt the change in her voice.
“What is it?”
“When I’m gone, don’t let people convince you that this was a mistake.”
I frowned.
“Why would anyone do that?”
“Because people are uncomfortable with kindness when they can’t explain it.”
I squeezed her hand.
“I won’t.”
She looked toward the photographer, who was packing his equipment.
“Keep the photograph.”
“I will.”
“And if someone comes to you after my funeral with a letter, listen before you decide what to believe.”
I turned toward her.
“What letter?”
She looked back at me.
“The truth doesn’t always arrive when we want it to.”
I waited for her to explain.
Instead, she leaned against my shoulder.
“Just promise me.”
