“Did the cafeteria lady’s grandson pass his driving test?” he asked once.
“I don’t know.”
“He was taking it Tuesday.”
“You remember that?”
Thomas shrugged. “She mentioned it.”
Another time, a housekeeper entered humming while she changed the trash bag.
“Morning, Lila,” he said. “That song again?”
She laughed.
“My mama loved it, Tom.”
“I know.”
She stopped. “You remembered?”
He only smiled.
That was Thomas.
At least, that was who I believed he was.
A gentle dying man.
A lonely one.
—
On the fourth day, he asked me to marry him.
“Marry me, Sarah,” he whispered.
I froze beside his bed, holding a cup of ice chips.
“Thomas…”
“I know.”
“You’re very sick.”
“We barely know each other.”
He watched me for a long moment.
“I know enough.”
“Enough for marriage?”
“Enough to know you’re the kind of person who stays.”
Two days later, a chaplain married us inside Thomas’s hospital room.
I wore a yellow sweater because Thomas said it made the room look less tired.
He wore the same cardigan with one missing button.
A nurse asked if I was certain. She said Thomas was old enough to be my grandfather.
I only said yes.
Because my heart had answered before my mind had the chance.
When the chaplain asked for rings, Thomas lifted his soda can, loosened the pull tab with his thin fingers, and slipped it onto mine.
It was too large.
He laughed softly.
“We’ll pretend your finger is shy.”
For seven days, I was his wife.
I signed forms.
Straightened blankets.
Snuck in better tea.
Stayed beside him when pain made his breathing turn shallow.
Once, close to the end, he opened his eyes and said, “Don’t mistake stillness for peace.”
“What does that mean?”
His smile barely appeared.
Then he fell asleep.
He never woke again.
—
see you next post
