I would enter carrying something.
Larry would say, “Sit down, Sarah.”
And I would answer, “In a minute.”
There was always another nurse to find.
Another form to complete.
Another problem to solve.
Then I reached the next sentence.
“I didn’t need better socks nearly as much as you thought I did.”
I laughed through my tears.
“You’re welcome, Larry.”
Then I read the line beneath it.
“I needed you to sit down.”
I looked at the empty place beside me.
Our final Tuesday together came rushing back.
I had brought his usual black coffee.
“You staying?” he asked.
“Five minutes.”
“Big spender.”
I ended up staying twelve.
Maybe those twelve minutes had been worth more to him than anything I had brought through the hospice doors.
The final paragraph began:
“Don’t turn me into another person you failed to save.”
My fingers stopped moving.
Because since Larry’s funeral, that was exactly what I had been doing.
If I had noticed sooner.
If I had found a better doctor.
If I had found permanent housing.
If I had done more.
Then I read the next line.
“You were not my failed rescue. You were my wife for three weeks. I liked it.”
A laugh escaped me.
“Idiot.”
I folded the letter around our marriage certificate.
For decades, Larry’s name had appeared beside one word.
Witness.
For three weeks, it appeared beside another.
Spouse.
A shadow fell across the pavement.
