Two days later, a hospital chaplain married us in that same narrow room. I wore a yellow sweater because Thomas said the color made the walls look less like a waiting room for death. He wore his cardigan with the missing button, the one he refused to let anyone replace. A nurse pulled me aside beforehand and asked, gently, if I was certain — Thomas was old enough to be my grandfather, she reminded me, as if I hadn’t noticed. I told her yes. My heart had already answered before my mind got a vote.
When the chaplain asked for rings, Thomas worked the tab loose from his soda can with fingers that shook more than they used to, and slid it onto my finger. It was too big. He laughed, soft and a little breathless. “We’ll just tell people your finger is shy.”
For seven days, I was his wife. I filled out forms with his name and mine linked together for the first time. I smoothed blankets that never stayed smooth. I smuggled in tea that was better than what the hospital allowed. I sat beside him on the nights his breathing turned shallow and counted his breaths instead of sleeping. Near the very end, his eyes opened once, clearer than they’d been in days, and he said, “Don’t mistake stillness for peace.”
