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
