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.