A homeless man held up a sign that read, “Marry me. I have only one month left to live” — I agreed out of pity, but the letter I received after his funeral made the blood drain from my face.
I walked past Larry every morning on my way to the office. He was a quiet, polite homeless man who sat outside my subway stop. Over the last two years, we had developed a friendly routine. I’d buy him a black coffee, and we’d chat about the weather before I rushed off to work.
But on a freezing Tuesday morning last month, he wasn’t asking for spare change. He was holding a piece of cardboard that read: “Marry me. I have only one month left to live.”
I stopped and knelt down next to him, handing him his usual coffee. “Larry, what is this?” I asked, frowning.
He looked terrible—paler than usual, his hands trembling as he took the cup. “The clinic gave me a month,” he rasped, staring down at the pavement. “Liver failure.”
