I remember it was Dr. Seuss' birthday, and I got to read to the

Host: The sun hung low over the community center, casting a warm orange glow on its chipped brick walls. Children’s laughter spilled out through the open windows, mingling with the rhythmic thump of a basketball somewhere beyond the fence. The air smelled faintly of chalk, sweat, and grass — the scent of lives just beginning.

Host: Inside, a mural of dreams covered the far wall — painted hands of different colors, holding up a world of swirling blue and gold. Beneath it, Jack sat on an old wooden bench, his arms crossed, his expression caught between nostalgia and fatigue. Across from him, Jeeny helped stack a few stray books — their covers bright with cartoon characters, their edges soft with use.

Host: The hum of the old ceiling fan filled the silence between them.

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “You ever read to kids before, Jack?”

Jack: (half-grins) “Read to them? No. I’ve barely had time to read for myself.”

Jeeny: “You should try it sometime. Travis Kelce said something that always stuck with me: ‘I remember it was Dr. Seuss’ birthday, and I got to read to the little ones — it was an awesome experience. I remember when I was a young knucklehead, having access to an after-school program in my community. It’s something that hits home to me, and something I wanted to always be a part of.’ You can feel his heart in that.”

Jack: (chuckles) “Dr. Seuss, huh? The guy who rhymed his way into immortality.”

Jeeny: “And taught half the world how to dream.”

Host: Outside, a basketball hit the pavement — once, twice, then rolled away. A young boy darted after it, his laughter slicing through the evening air. Jack’s eyes followed him, his gaze softening.

Jack: “When I was that age, my after-school program was watching TV alone while Mom worked nights. No community centers, no murals, no story time. Just an empty house and a lot of noise in my head.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “That’s exactly why these places matter, Jack. They give kids a sense that someone’s looking out for them. That they belong somewhere — even if it’s just a noisy gym with broken lights.”

Jack: “Yeah, but belonging doesn’t pay the bills, Jeeny. These places are underfunded, overlooked. Every year there’s another cut, another closed door. You think a storybook’s gonna save a kid from the street?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it does. Not the book itself — the moment. The attention. When someone sits down and says, ‘You matter enough for me to spend my time on you.’ You can’t measure that in budgets, Jack.”

Host: The light from the window spilled across Jeeny’s face — her eyes glowing with that kind of fierce compassion that made her words feel heavier than their sound. Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

Jack: “I get what you’re saying. I do. But life doesn’t run on good intentions. These kids grow up and reality hits hard. Rent. Hunger. The system doesn’t care that someone read The Lorax to them when they were eight.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But they care. And that memory — that feeling — it sticks. It builds something inside them. You know how Travis said it hit home for him? That’s because it gave him a map when he didn’t even know what a map was. You can’t build a future if you never learn to imagine one.”

Jack: “Imagination doesn’t fill stomachs.”

Jeeny: “No, but it fills souls. And a hungry soul is far more dangerous than a hungry body.”

Host: The words hung between them, heavy and tender. Outside, the sky deepened into indigo, and the faint sound of the children’s voices grew softer, replaced by the steady chirp of crickets.

Jack: “You really think programs like this change lives?”

Jeeny: “They changed mine.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly — not with weakness, but with memory. Jack looked up, curious.

Jack: “You?”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Yeah. I used to come here when I was a kid. After school. My mom worked late. I didn’t have anywhere else to go. This place — these people — they kept me out of a lot of trouble. I used to sit right over there, under that mural, reading Oh, the Places You’ll Go! over and over. Back then, I didn’t know what college was, or what I wanted to be. But that book… it told me I could go somewhere. That was enough.”

Jack: (softly) “And you did go somewhere.”

Jeeny: “Because someone took the time to care.”

Host: Jack leaned back, looking up at the mural — the painted hands lifting the world. The paint was chipped now, fading in places, but the message was still there, bold beneath the cracks.

Jack: “You ever think maybe we put too much faith in symbols? Programs, murals, books — all temporary. They fade. What lasts?”

Jeeny: “What lasts is the spark they leave behind. You can paint over a mural, but you can’t erase the idea that someone believed in you.”

Host: The ceiling fan creaked. The last of the sunlight disappeared. Somewhere down the hall, a janitor’s mop squeaked against the tiles — the quiet rhythm of closing time.

Jack: (sighing) “You always make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s sacred.”

Host: Her eyes caught his, steady and unwavering. For a moment, Jack said nothing. He looked down at his hands — rough, tired, still faintly dusted with chalk from earlier, when he had helped fix the basketball court.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I used to think adults were superheroes. That someone, somewhere, had it all figured out. But now I see — it’s just people trying not to let the light go out.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what this place is — people holding candles in the dark, one by one.”

Host: The door creaked open, and one of the little ones poked her head in — a girl with pigtails and a book clutched in her hands.

Girl: “Miss Jeeny, can you read one more before you go?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Of course, sweetheart.”

Host: She turned to Jack.

Jeeny: “You should stay. She likes the stories about the cat in the hat.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “The one with the fish who keeps warning everyone?”

Jeeny: “That’s the one.”

Host: The girl climbed into Jeeny’s lap, and soon the familiar, rhythmic cadence of Dr. Seuss filled the room — bright and musical, like the sound of innocence refusing to surrender. Jack leaned back against the wall, watching.

Host: Outside, the streetlights flickered on, casting their glow through the dusty windows. The mural shimmered faintly under the artificial light — a painted world lifted by a thousand small hands, each one still reaching.

Host: And as Jeeny read, and the child’s laughter rose again, Jack found himself smiling — not the tired smile of a man worn down by reason, but the quiet one that comes when something deep within remembers what it means to hope.

Host: In that small, flickering room, purpose didn’t look like a speech or a salary. It looked like a book, a laugh, and a promise — that no matter how dim the world became, someone would always keep reading to the little ones.