I Married a Homeless Man Who Had One Month Left to Live – But the Letter I Received After His Funeral Made the Bl00d Drain from My Face

Uneven.

Shaky.

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

The postmark was dated one day before he died.

When I first saw the envelope, I smiled.

I assumed Larry had written me a goodbye.

That would have been like him.

The man couldn’t accept a cup of  coffee without thanking me three times.

Then I reached the next sentence.

“Nobody was going to bury me as a John Doe.”

My smile vanished.

I sat down.

“No.”

Less than a month earlier, Larry had been sitting outside my usual subway station with a piece of cardboard resting across his knees.

Written across it in large black letters were the words:

MARRY ME. I HAVE ONE MONTH LEFT TO LIVE.