I married a dying stranger because he didn’t want to spend his final days completely alone. Thomas was seventy-two, seriously ill, and I had been volunteering at the hospital after losing my mother. Although we barely knew each other, he noticed the little things about people and always seemed willing to listen. One day, he asked me to marry him. “I know we barely know each other,” he said, “but I know enough. You’re the kind of person who stays.” Two days later, a chaplain married us in his hospital room, using a soda can pull tab as our wedding ring.
For seven days, I stayed by his side. I brought him tea, adjusted his pillows, read to him, and listened to his stories. After Thomas died, his attorney gave me an old green backpack and said, “Thomas wanted you to know the truth.” Inside were envelopes labeled with ordinary places such as Bus Stop, Grocery Store, Airport, Park Bench, Waiting Room, and Hospital Chapel. Each contained a small object and a strange note about an ordinary moment.
