I didn’t understand how well he knew it until later.
Two days after his proposal, we went to the courthouse.
For illustrative purposes only
Part 3 — Eleven Minutes as Husband and Wife
Larry wore a clean blue button-down shirt someone at the shelter had found for him.
I wore the navy dress I normally saved for important office meetings.
Neither of us had rings.
When the clerk asked about them, Larry patted his pockets dramatically.
“Could’ve sworn I put the diamonds in here.”
I laughed.
The clerk did too.
Eleven minutes later, Larry and I were legally married.
It was probably the least romantic wedding that courthouse had ever seen.
No flowers.
No family.
No photographer.
No vows beyond what the law required.
And yet Larry’s hands shook so badly when he signed the certificate that I had to steady the paper.
“You’re nervous,” I teased.
“I’m dying. I’m allowed to be nervous.”
I accepted that explanation.
Why wouldn’t I?
Everything seemed explainable by his illness.
His shaking hands.
The way he stared at the certificate after the clerk handed it to him.
The care with which he folded his copy and slipped it into his coat.
When I said, “You’re acting like this is a real wedding,” Larry became strangely quiet.
Then he smiled.
“First marriage. Let me enjoy it.”
I laughed.
I didn’t understand what he meant.
Not then.
Our marriage lasted exactly three weeks.
Three weeks of hospice visits.
Three weeks of forms and nurses and medications.
Three weeks in which I apparently decided a dying man required six months’ worth of toiletries.
I bought him new socks.
A blanket.
A phone charger.
Lip balm.
Hand cream.
Books he never finished.
Every time I entered his room carrying another bag, Larry would sigh.
“Sarah.”
“What?”
“Sit down.”
“In a minute.”
“There is always a minute later with you.”
“I just need to talk to the nurse.”
“Sit.”
“After I fix this.”
He would shake his head.
I thought I was helping.
And I was.
But I was helping in the only language I understood.
Doing.
Solving.
Organizing.
On the final Tuesday of his life, I brought our usual coffees.
Mine with cream.
His black.
“You staying?” he asked.
