Can you make it to tomorrow? Can you hold out?
There you will find what lies beyond the pines, what the porch lamp hides, who waits at the top of the chipped stone steps.
Your father and mother will be circling in the green skiff, far out in the reach. He sculling with one oar, she scanning the glare, eyes shielded. She points, she mouths a name, you break the wave, gasping. Such a delicate operation. She has to lean forward to embrace you, he must slouch back at the same moment, equalizing the thrust, then right himself in increments, while you wriggle over the gunwale.
All the more difficult as they’ve been arguing, in whispers or in mime, exquisitely aware how sound travels over water. If one performs perfectly, it might seem like an attempt to make amends.