When we get out of here, I'll take you to an old fishers' pier on a day too hot to do anything else but watch the waves come in across the bay and break, and break, and break. For this last mizzling rain of the year on a field where wild poppies grow makes me think we've not spent enough time on piers, with salt-wind stirring your hair, the sun baking, and the lullabye crush of waves breaking. And maybe we never will; the words lodged in my throat have too-familiar an ache. Now it's all I have left to give: that we'll go to the wide amnesiac sea, that we'll make it there when we get out of here.