Highland Park, before that summer, was a town of pretty fences. Afterward, it became a town of open doors. The synagogue on Ridge Road kept its sanctuary doors unlocked until midnight, just in case someone needed to sit in the dark and cry. The library turned its back patio into a “quiet listening space”—no card required. The old firehouse, which had been closed for years, reopened its bay doors for free grief counseling.
And you’ll know: you were expected.
Highland Park taught me that grief doesn’t close doors—it reveals which ones were never really locked. And hope? Hope is the audacity to walk through. hope’s doors highland park
They say hope isn’t a feeling. It’s a door. Highland Park, before that summer, was a town