For her eightieth birthday, Marjorie Bertram wanted a car to take her to the sea. Her tiny room inside the senior living center was stuffy and, for her, quite filthy. Marjorie believed a visit to the coast would refresh her spirit, and, more importantly, her memory.
Each day, she felt more and more of it leave her: where she left her rings, what that appliance in the corner was for, and the name of that kind woman who brought the cup of carrot juice with lunch. If only she could pull herself together, pretend for a moment that everything was as it had been just a few years ago, she could get on the road and follow it to the ocean.
Maybe, if she was lucky and feeling fit enough, she would even hop aboard one of those ferries that connected to the string of islands where her father grew up. What were they called? The islands out past the… out past the…
Oh that horrible pecking at the window. That blasted crow, like a messenger from death Himself sent to play a trick on her. What a beast. Pecking over and over again. Making her lose her train of thought and with it her memory of all the things she had seen and all the people she knew.