Power isn’t measured by how many people recognize it.
Sometimes restraint in using it proves more.
August fully retired the next spring.
At his farewell dinner, he gave me the photo of himself and my mother.
Her faded handwriting appeared on its back:
Build things people can stand inside.
I studied her words for a while.
August grinned.
“She always talked like that.”
“She did.”
“Annoying woman.”
I laughed while crying.
“She liked you too.”
He feigned offense.
Before departing, he rested a hand on my shoulder.
“You know, the newspapers got one thing wrong.”
“Only one?”
He smiled.
“They said I saved you that night.”
I faced him.
“You did.”
“No.”
August shook his head.
“I asked a question.”
His eyes moved toward the photograph in my hand.
“You were already standing.”
Months later, Camden sent a final letter.
I nearly left it unopened.
He didn’t request reconciliation.
