I Married a Homeless Man Who Had One Month Left to Live – But the Letter I Received After His Funeral Made the Blood Drain from My Face
The homeless man I married drank his coffee black outside my subway stop. After his funeral, his last letter opened with an apology I couldn’t understand and sent me back to the courthouse. There, a clerk opened a record book, found his name on hundreds of pages, and asked which Larry I had married.
“Sarah, I need to apologize before I thank you.”
I read the first line twice.
Larry’s letter had arrived six days after his funeral, in a thick white envelope covered in the shaky handwriting I’d seen on his hospice forms. The postmark was dated the day before he died.
Larry’s letter had arrived six days after his funeral.
I’d smiled when I found it.
I thought Larry had written a goodbye. The man couldn’t accept a coffee without thanking me three times.
Then I read the next sentence.
“Nobody was going to bury me as a John Doe.”
The blood drained from my face. I sat down.
“No.”
The blood drained from my face.
***
Less than a month earlier, Larry had been outside my subway station holding a piece of cardboard across his knees.
MARRY ME. I HAVE ONE MONTH LEFT TO LIVE.
I’d known him for two years.
I HAVE ONE MONTH LEFT TO LIVE.
Every weekday, I bought two coffees from the kiosk beside the station. Mine with cream. His black.
