That day, I sat down.
I put his coffee next to me.
Then I unfurled the next page of your letter.
At the top, Larry had written:
“I didn’t need a wife to make my life matter, Sarah.”
I swallowed.
Then I read the next line.
“But I wanted to know what it once felt like to have someone choose that word with me.”
My eyes filled with tears.
Larry continued.
“I knew if I had told you the truth, you could have said yes.”
I stared at the page.
Then came the question that he had apparently asked himself.
“Why didn’t you do it?”
His answer was below.
“Because then I would have to hear you decide whether being alone was enough reason.”
I couldn't stop crying.
I had turned his loneliness into paperwork because I was afraid that if he just asked me to stay, I could say no.
“I’ve made it easier for you to say yes, turning loneliness into paperwork. You had a right to know. I'm sorry."
I whispered,
“You should have told me.”
A train was rumbling under the pavement.
I kept reading.
“You always wanted to fix things for me. I liked that about you, even when you drove me crazy.”
I almost smile through my tears.
During those three weeks of marriage, he had bought him better socks, a phone charger, a new blanket and enough toiletries to last for months.
Luego llegué a la siguiente línea.
“No necesitaba mejores calcetines tanto como pensabas que pensaba”.
Me reí.
– Eres bienvenido, Larry.
Then I read the phrase below.
“I needed you to sit down.
My smile disappeared.
I remembered all the hospice visits.
Siempre había entrado en llevar algo.
Comida.
Suministros.
Formularios.
Un cargador de teléfono.
Y Larry siempre decía lo mismo.
– Siéntate, Sarah.
I would answer,
– En un minuto.
There was always another problem to solve.
For illustrative purposes only
Another nurse to find.
Otra forma de completar.
Otra cosa que podría hacer por él.
But maybe what Larry had wanted was no other solution.
Maybe he just wanted someone to sit next to him.
His last paragraph began with words that caused my fingers to stop.
“Don’t make me another person that you didn’t manage to save.”
I looked at the phrase.
Since his funeral, that's exactly what he'd been doing.
I kept thinking:
If I'd noticed earlier.
If I had found a better doctor.
If I had found it, house.
If I had done more.
Larry seemed to know that I would blame myself.
So I had left a final answer.
“You were not my failed rescue. You were my wife for three weeks. I liked it.”
A laugh escaped through my tears.
“Idiot,” I whispered.
I folded the letter around the copy of our marriage certificate.
For decades, Larry’s name had appeared alongside a word.
Witness.
For three weeks, he had appeared next to another.
Husband.
Then a shadow fell down the sidewalk.
“Excuse me. Is this seat occupied?”
I looked up.
A man with a worn backpack was standing next to me.
My first instinct was to reach my bag.
Then I stopped.
I remembered Larry's final instruction.
The lesson hidden within all those pages.
