The homeless man I married always drank his coffee black outside the subway station I used every day. After his funeral, his final letter began with an apology I couldn’t understand and sent me straight back to the courthouse. There, a clerk opened an old record book, found his name written across hundreds of pages, and asked which Larry I had married.

“Sarah, I need to apologize before I thank you.”

I read that opening sentence twice.

Larry’s letter reached me six days after his funeral, sealed inside a thick white envelope covered with the same shaky handwriting I had seen on his hospice paperwork. The postmark showed it had been mailed the day before he died.

Larry’s letter arrived six days after his funeral.

I had smiled when I first saw it.

I assumed Larry had written me a final goodbye. This was a man who couldn’t accept a cup of coffee without thanking me three separate times.

Then I reached the next sentence.

“Nobody was going to bury me as a John Doe.”

All the color left my face. I lowered myself into a chair.

“No.”

The blood drained from my face.

Less than a month before that, Larry had been sitting outside my subway station with a cardboard sign resting across his knees.

MARRY ME. I HAVE ONE MONTH LEFT TO LIVE.

I had known him for two years.

I HAVE ONE MONTH LEFT TO LIVE.
Just not mine.”

“Another black?”

I shook my head.

“Actually, could I get some cream?”

When I returned to the bench, Larry’s letter and our marriage certificate rested beside me.For once, there was nowhere I needed to hurry.

And the coffee I held finally tasted like it belonged to me.

For once, I wasn’t rushing anywhere.