At 82, I Found

getting out.

The ocean was gray, restless, immense.

Frank wrapped Margaret’s scarf around his neck.

“Well, Maggie,” he whispered. “We made it.”

He carried her diary to a bench overlooking the waves. From his coat pocket, he took a letter he had written in the motel the night before.

Dear Maggie,
I am in Maine. You would have complained about the cold and continue reading …