Ninety-three-year old Barbara sat in her rocker peering out at her driveway full of “vultures” and the estate sale people. They handled the flotsam and jetsam of her journey with John, her captain, but a landlubber. His urn was on her nightstand.
“How much for this old shell?” queried a blonde stretchfaced woman of indeterminate age. It was her neighbor.
Barbara remembered the shell. She was a young bride walking the beach at Del Coronado and John had picked up the shell, “How ‘bout that, Barb?” She loved it.
Barb knocked on the window, “NOT FOR SALE!”