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.”
A laugh escaped me.
“Idiot.”
I folded the letter around our marriage certificate.
For decades, Larry’s name had appeared beside one word.
Witness.
For three weeks, it appeared beside another.
Spouse.
A shadow fell across the pavement.
“Excuse me. Is anyone sitting here?”
A man carrying a worn backpack pointed toward the empty space beside me.
