Sole Survivor
We were strolling along an Oregon beach one chilly April morning when my husband Steve and I stopped to take pictures of the Peter Iredale, a century-old shipwreck.
The steel skeleton looked as though it had melted into the sand, and after we photographed it Steve took a "selfie" of us together— holding the camera at arm's length to catch our wind-blown hair and bleary smiles. It was our last picture. He died of a heart attack five days later.
Looking at the photograph today, I search for some kind of clue or warning sign that we were doomed, like the old ship—but of course there is none. .
little by little
the stranded ship
returns to the sea