I Married a Homeless Man Who Had One Month Left to Live – But the Letter I Received After His Funeral
Outside my metro station, the homeless man I married drank his coffee black. His final letter, which was sent back to the courthouse after his funeral, began with an incomprehensible apology.
A clerk there wondered which Larry I had married after opening a record book and finding his name on hundreds of pages.
“Sarah, I need to apologize before I thank you.”
I went over the first line twice.
Six days after his funeral, Larry’s letter arrived in a big white envelope with the unsteady handwriting
I’d seen on his hospice paperwork. The day before he passed away, the postmark was dated.
Six days after his funeral, Larry’s letter had arrived.
When I discovered it, I grinned.
I believed Larry had written a farewell. The man had to thank me three times before he would accept a cup of coffee.
I read the next sentence after that.
“Nobody was going to bury me as a John Doe.”
My face was devoid of blood. I took a seat.
“No.”
My face was devoid of blood.
Larry had been standing outside my metro station with a piece of cardboard across his knees less than a month prior.
I have one month left to live, so marry me.
He was someone I had known for two years.
I have one more month to live.
I purchased two coffees from the kiosk next to the station every workday. My own with cream. He’s black.
I was never asked for anything by Larry. On a few mornings, we talked about the weather. On other mornings, he would gripe about pigeons or tell me that my office shoes were made by “somebody who hated feet.”
I was never asked for anything by Larry.
Before rushing to work, I would typically stay for five minutes.
Larry looked awful that chilly Tuesday.
When I offered him his coffee, his hands shook and his skin had a yellowish tint.
I pointed to the sign and said, “What is this?”
“What is this?”
“The clinic gave me about a month.”
The sound of the vehicles appeared to vanish.
“What?”
“Liver failure.”
On the chilly concrete, I sat next to him.
“Larry, I’m so sorry.”
“The clinic gave me about a month.”
“Don’t make that face.”
“What face?”
“The one people make when they’re already at your funeral.”
He could still make me laugh.
However, the sign was not amusing.
“Why marriage?”
However, the sign was not amusing.
His gaze fell to his coffee.
“I don’t want to die belonging to nobody.”
“You don’t.”
“That’s nice to say, Sarah. It’s different on a form.”
He clarified that strangers would eventually handle his remains if he had no legal family.
“It’s different on a form.”
“I just want somebody who can say, ‘He’s mine. I’ll take him.'”
I didn’t have a partner.
He was going to die.
Furthermore, I had always been better at finding solutions to issues than ignoring them.
We visited the courthouse two days later.
He was going to die.
Larry was wearing a fresh blue shirt that he received from someone at the shelter. I put on my work outfit in navy.
Larry patted his pockets as the salesperson inquired about rings.
“Knew I forgot something.”
I chuckled.
I became his wife eleven minutes later.
I put on my work outfit in navy.
At the state hospice facility, I sat next to his bed exactly three weeks later as his breathing
gradually stopped.
I was being told in his letter that I had married him for a false cause.
I had wed him.
I made myself keep going.
“The liver failure was real. The month was real. The lie was why I asked you to marry me.”
I put the letter down for a moment before picking it up again.
“The lie was why I asked you to marry me.”
“My arrangements were already handled. I knew somebody from hospice or the county would
deal with the paperwork. I wasn’t going to disappear without a name.”
My chair scratched backward as I stood up so fast.
“What did you do, Larry?”
“I wasn’t going to disappear without a name.”
The rage had nowhere to go.
He had passed away.
I was unable to call him.
couldn’t expect an explanation.
I couldn’t even get him to sit through the look on my face.
I was unable to call him.
I continued to read.
“If I gave you a problem you could solve, I knew you’d solve it.”
The line that hurt was the one.
since he was correct.
I had been making Larry offers for two years.
coffee.
food.
Socks.
Shelter phone numbers.
The line that hurt was the one.
I once spent half of my lunch break looking for a bed when the temperature fell below freezing.
Every time, Larry had thanked me.
It never occurred to me that he might have perfected the art of asking me for something.
Every time, Larry had thanked me.
He had written the following at the bottom of the page:
“Before you decide what kind of jerk I was, go back to the courthouse where we got married. Ask for Margaret. Tell her you’re my wife.”
I almost discarded the letter.
“Tell her you’re my wife.”
Rather, I found myself standing in the courthouse lobby an hour later.
The plastic seats were occupied by couples.
While her fiancé carried her bouquet, a woman in a white jumpsuit adjusted her lipstick. A toddler’s
father attempted to catch him as he crawled under two chairs.
I was in the courthouse.
Larry and I had been seated in the same row three weeks prior.
He had repeatedly rubbed his palms on his jeans.
“You’re shaking,” I had informed him.
“I’m dying. I’m allowed to shake.”
“You’re shaking.”
That explanation had been accepted by me.
Since it was simpler than to ask another question, I now pondered what else I had accepted.
A receptionist at the records counter sent me to an elderly woman wearing red spectacles.
“Margaret?”
She raised her gaze.
“Yes?”
That explanation had been accepted by me.
“I’m Sarah. Larry’s wife.”
Her hands came to a halt over the keyboard.
“Larry?”
I gave a nod.
Her chair toppled over.
“Oh, honey.”
She approached the desk and gave me a hug.
I stood rigidly.
“I’m Sarah. Larry’s wife.”
Her eyes were wet when she let go of me.
“When did he pass away?”
“A week ago.”
She turned her head away.
“I knew he was sick. I didn’t realize it was that close.”
“You knew Larry?”
“I knew he was sick.”
Margaret scowled. “Of course.”
“How?”
She looked around the courthouse.
“He worked here.”
I gazed at her.
“Here?”
“For 28 years.”
I questioned, “Then how did he end up outside?”
“He worked here.”
“His health failed after he retired. Medical bills took his savings, and when he lost his apartment, he was too proud to call any of us.”
“What did he do?”
“Marriage licenses, mostly.”
Margaret took off her spectacles.
“He never told you?”
“No.”
“What did he do?”
“That sounds like Larry.”
“What does that mean?”
She paused. “Come with me.”
She guided me into a tiny chamber used for civil ceremonies.
The wooden arch against the wall was familiar to me.
“This is where we got married.”
“Come with me.”
“I know.”
“You were here?”
“No. But Larry was, the afternoon before.”
I turned to face her.
“Why?”
Margaret went over to a cupboard and opened the bottom drawer.
“I asked him the same thing.”
“You were here?”
She took out a bulky binder and set it down on a table.
“He sat right there for almost an hour.”
She gestured to a chair next to the wooden arch.
I questioned, “What did he want?”
Margaret gave a slight smile and said, “Nothing.” “He said he was nervous.”
“What did he want?”
I nearly burst out laughing.
“A man who worked around weddings for 28 years?”
She put one hand on the binder and said, “That’s what I told him.” “He looked at that arch and said, ‘Tomorrow I’m standing on the other side of the desk.'”
“Tomorrow I’m standing on the other side of the desk.”
It brought up memories of Larry’s trembling hands.
I had blamed the sickness.
Perhaps I had been watching something different.
The binder was opened by Margaret.
“Look.”
Beneath the plastic wrapping was an antique marriage record.
I had blamed the sickness.
At the top were the names of two strangers.
There was a signature near the bottom that I recognized right away.
Larry.
There was a single word next to it.
Be a witness.
Margaret flipped over a few pages.
One more pair.
Larry.
Be a witness.
Then one more.
There was a single word next to it.
The dates accelerated.
distinct individuals.
distinct years.
identical handwriting.
“What is this?”
Margaret remarked, “People sometimes came in without anyone else.” “Larry would step out from behind the counter and witness for them.”
identical handwriting.
She flipped to the next page.
“He hated the thought of somebody getting married with nobody standing there.”
I came into contact with one of his signatures.
Seeing Larry’s handwriting from decades before I had met him seemed weird.
The same thin L.
The same crooked y.
“How many?”
I came into contact with one of his signatures.
Margaret gave a shrug.
She grinned and said, “Hundreds, probably.” “He used to joke that he’d attended more weddings
than anyone in the building and never had to remember an anniversary.”
I let out a laugh.
When the obvious question came up, it vanished.
I came into contact with one of his signatures.
“Was he ever married?”
Margaret shut the binder.
She remained silent.
“Margaret?”
“Once.”
I looked over her face.
“To who?”
She gave me a direct glance.
“You.”
I took a seat.
Larry had witnessed strangers enter that building under two different identities and depart legally
connected for twenty-eight years.
“Was he ever married?”
He came forward and signed as their witness whenever they were alone. His name kept coming up,
but never next to the term “spouse.”
Until me, that is.
Margaret pulled open a second drawer.
Never next to the term “spouse.”
“There’s something else. Larry asked me to pull this after the marriage was recorded, in case you ever came looking for me.”
She took off a transparent plastic sleeve and put it in front of me.
A copy of our marriage license was inside.
My name.
Larry’s.
In addition to his:
A spouse.
“There’s something else.”
After the ceremony, I recalled how meticulously he had folded his copy.
How he had twice asked the clerk where to sign.
How I had made fun of him.
“You’re acting like this is a real wedding.”
I had made fun of him.
For a moment, Larry had become silent.
Then he had grinned.
“First marriage. Let me have my nerves.”
I had chuckled.
I couldn’t now.
Margaret took a seat next to me.
“Did Larry tell you why he wanted to marry you?”
I had chuckled. I couldn’t now.
“He told me a reason.”
I gave an explanation of the letter.
The burial narrative.
He had acknowledged that he was making things worse because he knew I would be able to assist.
Margaret didn’t stand up for him when I was done.
“That wasn’t fair to you, dear.”
“He told me a reason.”
I gave her a look.
“He knew you’d say yes to a problem,” she remarked. “Larry was always better at asking for practical help than asking anybody to choose him.”
I continued to stare at Larry’s signature even after Margaret closed the binder.
“What was I really saying yes to?”
I couldn’t stop staring at Larry’s signature.
Margaret examined the certification.
“That isn’t my story to tell.”
I wanted to demand a response.
Then I recalled that I had the rest of Larry’s letter in my handbag.
He had instructed me to come here first.
This is what he wanted me to see.
I wanted to demand a response.
the signatures of the witness.
The certification.
the term “spouse.”
I headed home via the subway after leaving the courthouse.
However, I got off the train when it got to Larry’s former stop.
The woman behind the counter at the coffee kiosk recognized me.
“Two?”
I was recognized by the woman working behind the counter.
I nearly replied in the affirmative.
I then turned to face the vacant area next to the station door.
“Yeah.”
She gave me Larry’s black coffee and mine cream coffee.
I took both outdoors and took a seat where he always sits.
I had never been there long enough to complete a cup in two years.
I nearly replied in the affirmative.
I set his coffee down next to me.
I then turned the following page.
At the top, Larry had written just one statement.
“I didn’t need a wife to make my life matter, Sarah.”
There was another beneath it.
I turned to the next page.
“But I did want to know what it felt like once to have somebody choose that word with me.”
I came to a halt.
Beside me, the black coffee steamed in the chilly air.
I read the next line after that.
“I knew if I’d told you the truth, you might still have said yes.”
The next paragraph caught my attention.
My eyes got full.
“So why didn’t you?”
Right underneath was Larry’s response.
“Because then I’d have to hear you decide whether being lonely was a good enough reason.”
Suddenly, the mornings spent with Larry over the past two years started to change.
“So why didn’t you?”
The next thing Larry said was:
“I made it easier for you to say yes by turning loneliness into paperwork. You had the right to know. I’m sorry.”
I gazed at the paper.
“You should’ve told me.”
Beneath the pavement, a train rumbled.
“You should’ve told me.”
The letter went on.
“You always wanted to fix things for me. I liked that about you, even when you drove me crazy.”
I nearly grinned.
I had bought Larry a new blanket, a phone charger, better socks, and enough toiletries for six months during our three weeks of marriage.
I nearly grinned.
Each hospice visit started in the same manner.
I would enter with something in my hand.
Larry would remark, “Sit down, Sarah.”
In response, I would say, “In a minute.”
You could always locate another nurse. One more form to fill out. I could solve another issue.
“Sit down, Sarah.”
He wrote, “I didn’t need better socks as much as you thought I did.”
I chuckled while crying.
“You’re welcome, Larry.”
I read the next line after that.
“I needed you to sit down.”
I glanced at the vacant space next to me.
“I needed you to sit down.”
I had brought his regular coffee on our final Tuesday together.
He had inquired, “You staying?”
“Five minutes.”
“Big spender.”
I had remained twelve.
Perhaps the gift had been twelve minutes.
The last paragraph started:
“Don’t turn me into one more person you failed to save.”
Perhaps the gift had been twelve minutes.
My fingers came to a halt.
I had done just that since his funeral.
If only I had noticed earlier.
found more qualified physicians.
found a place to live.
completed more.
Beneath it, Larry had written, “You were not my failed rescue. You were my wife for three weeks. I
liked it.”
If only I had noticed earlier.
I started laughing.
“Idiot.”
I wrapped the letter in a copy of our marriage license.
Larry’s name had been next to one word for decades.
Be a witness.
It had been next to another for three weeks.
spouse.
A shadow moved across the pavement.
“Excuse me. Is this seat taken?”
Larry’s name had been next to one word for decades.
A man with a tattered backpack motioned toward the area next to me.
I instinctively reached for my handbag.
then came to a halt.
“No.”
He took a seat.
I almost asked whether he was in need of coffee.
He took a seat.
Rather, I recalled Larry’s last directive.
“Next time you start fixing somebody’s life, ask them what they actually want first.”
We just watched folks rush to the station for a while.
I then extended my hand.
“I’m Sarah.”
The man seems taken aback.
“Jeremy.”
“Nice to meet you.”
I recalled Larry’s last directive.
I sipped from the second cup of coffee.
Black.
I pulled a face.
Jeremy took a quick look.
“Bad?”
“No.”
I glanced at Larry’s vacant spot.
“Just not mine.”
I made my way back to the kiosk.
I was noticed by the woman working behind the counter.
“Just not mine.”
“Another black?”
I gave a headshake.
“Actually, could I get some cream?”
Larry’s letter and our marriage license were next to me when I sat down once again.
I wasn’t hurrying somewhere for once.
And at last, the coffee I was holding tasted like mine.
I wasn’t hurrying somewhere for once.
