This is where we didn’t go. It was supposed to be the last in that tome of compromises, of postponements made until everything else got better. I was always waiting for your life to catch up. My well of patience was infinitely deep for you. Every time I thought it had run dry, there would always be dewdrops on the walls the next morning, the vessel full by noon. Even now, with so many items on the list unfinished, the only one I mind is San Antonio. Even now, my well remains an oasis in the desert of our history.