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 Robert, her captain, her soul mate. 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 Robert had picked up the shell, “For you, my love.” She had cherished it.
“A dollar.”
A lifetime with Robert. -- an Eternity without.
“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 Robert had picked up the shell, “For you, my love.” She had cherished it.
“A dollar.”
A lifetime with Robert. -- an Eternity without.
