The homeless man I married always drank his coffee black outside my subway station.

Six days after his funeral, a letter arrived in his shaky handwriting.

The first sentence was an apology I didn’t understand.

By the end of the page, I was on my way back to the courthouse where we had gotten married.

There, a clerk opened an old record book filled with Larry’s name and asked me a question I never expected.

Which Larry had I married?

“Sarah, I need to apologize before I thank you.”

I read the opening line twice.

Larry’s letter had arrived less than a week after his funeral, sealed inside a thick white envelope.

The handwriting was unmistakable.

Uneven.

Shaky.

The same handwriting I had watched him use while completing forms at hospice.