The homeless man I married always drank his coffee black outside my subway station.

Six days after his  funeral, a letter arrived in his shaky handwriting.

The first sentence was an apology I didn’t understand.

By the end of the page, I was on my way back to the courthouse where we had gotten  married.

There, a clerk opened an old record book filled with Larry’s name and asked me a question I never expected.

Which Larry had I married?

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

I read the opening line twice.

Larry’s letter had arrived less than a week after his funeral, sealed inside a thick white envelope.

The handwriting was unmistakable.

Uneven.

Shaky.

The same handwriting I had watched him use while completing forms at hospice.

The postmark was dated one day before he died.

When I first saw the envelope, I smiled.

I assumed Larry had written me a goodbye.

That would have been like him.

The man couldn’t accept a cup of  coffee without thanking me three times.

Then I reached the next sentence.

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

My smile vanished.

I sat down.

“No.”

Less than a month earlier, Larry had been sitting outside my usual subway station with a piece of cardboard resting across his knees.

Written across it in large black letters were the words:

MARRY ME. I HAVE ONE MONTH LEFT TO LIVE.

I had known Larry for nearly two years.

Every weekday morning, I stopped at the coffee kiosk beside the station and bought two cups.

Mine had cream.

His was always black.

Larry never begged me for money.

Some mornings we talked about the weather.

Other mornings he complained about the pigeons.

Once, he looked down at my office heels and told me they looked like they had been designed by “someone who hated human feet.”

Usually, I stayed for five minutes before rushing to work.

That Tuesday morning was different.

Larry looked terrible.