At 82, I Found

Manageable, but serious.

Frank listened calmly. At eighty-three, a man could not pretend forever that death was a rumor.

On the drive home, Diane cried quietly.

Frank looked out the window at the passing cornfields.

“I’m not afraid,” he said.

Diane wiped her face. “Well, I’m not thrilled.”

He reached over and patted her hand.

“I know.”

“You don’t get to become continue reading …