The first sentence was an apology I ali 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.”
