Even then, he could make me laugh.
But the sign wasn’t funny.
“Why marriage?”
But the sign wasn’t funny.
His eyes dropped to his coffee.
“I don’t want to die belonging to nobody.”
“You don’t.”
“That’s nice to say, Sarah. It’s different on a form.”
He explained that without legal family, strangers would eventually handle his remains.
“It’s different on a form.”
“I just want somebody who can say, ‘He’s mine. I’ll take him.’”
I was single.
He was dying.
And I had always been better at solving problems than walking away from them.
Two days later, we went to the courthouse.
He was dying.
Larry wore a clean blue shirt someone at the shelter had given him. I wore my navy work dress.
When the clerk asked about rings, Larry patted his pockets.
“Knew I forgot something.”
I laughed.
Eleven minutes later, I was his wife.
