Now, years later, they are standing on the lawn again as they had many times before over the years, hair graying and faces wrinkled. Their son hangs from the rope swing again, on the verge of manhood but unwilling to let go of the sweet years of childhood and face a life where innocence is dead. The rope, well worn by hands and time, is knotted about his neck. His feet brush the surface of the pond, just as they had many times before. But this time there is no joyful whoop-only silence, broken by the occasional creak of the rope or groan of the old tree.