My eyes filled with tears.
I whispered, “Then why didn’t you?”
Larry’s answer was written directly beneath it.
“Because then I would have had to listen while you decided whether loneliness was a good enough reason.”
Suddenly, two years of mornings with Larry looked different.
The next line read:
“I made it easier for you by turning loneliness into paperwork. I knew you would understand paperwork. You had the right to know the truth. I’m sorry.”
I stared at his words.
“You should have told me.”
A subway train rumbled beneath the pavement.
The letter continued.
“You were always trying to fix things for me. I liked that about you, even when you drove me crazy.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
During our three weeks of marriage, I had bought Larry warm socks, toiletries, a phone charger, and a new blanket.
Probably enough supplies to last six months.
Every hospice visit went exactly the same way.
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.”
