I couldn’t call him.
I couldn’t march into his hospice room and demand an explanation.
I couldn’t make him sit there while I told him how cruel it was to leave me with questions he no longer had to face.
Less than a month earlier, I had believed I married a dying homeless man because nobody else would claim his body after death.
Now Larry was telling me that had never really been the reason.
And suddenly I was forced to question the strangest, most meaningful three weeks of my life.
Part 2 — The Man Outside the Subway
I had known Larry for almost two years before I became his wife.
Every weekday morning, I stopped at a coffee kiosk outside the subway station on my way to work.
One coffee for me.
Cream, no sugar.
One for Larry.
Black.
Always black.
He usually sat near the station entrance with an old backpack beside him and layers of clothing that never quite seemed warm enough in winter.
Larry was homeless, although he hated being described as if homelessness were the only fact worth knowing about him.
He never begged from me.
That was one of the first things I noticed.
If I brought him a sandwich, he accepted it.
If I brought socks, he thanked me.
If I handed him information about a shelter or outreach program, he listened politely.
But he never once stretched out his hand and asked me for money.
Mostly, we talked.
Some mornings it was the weather.
