You pinky-swear, I’ll never let go and mean it more than Rose meant with Jack. The line is drawn: child to grown up, romantic to impressionist. Every year the ratio to time spent next to the pool increases, and somehow you become mindful of the survival of others. The rabbit is buried in the ground and it’s not a matter of distance but effort. There is no leap, only a step obscured in limestone and sometimes all it takes is a little desperation, and the feeling of nostalgia is what they call missing something real.