The last day of summer, we were homeward bound. Roxane, selfless, resourceful, humorous, had made these past weeks possible for my ailing wife. We hugged, promised to see each other next year. I watched Roxie head out to her truck, skip stepping, this once, and drive away.
A call in February: “Bad news from Florida. Roxane died. Stroke.”
I like to think Roxane foresaw this in the unceasing waves, and so forewarned, sprang forward undaunted to meet it.