Two days later, a chaplain married us in Thomas’s hospital room.
I wore a yellow sweater because Thomas said it made the room look less tired.
He wore the same cardigan, complete with its missing button.
A nurse asked if I was certain. She said Thomas was old enough to be my grandfather.
I simply said yes.
Because my heart had already answered before my mind could.
When the chaplain asked for rings, Thomas lifted his soda can, worked the pull tab loose with his thin fingers, and slipped it onto mine.
It was too big.
He laughed softly.
“We’ll pretend your finger is shy.”
For seven days, I was his wife.
I signed forms.
Adjusted his blankets.
Smuggled in better tea.
Sat beside him whenever pain made his breathing shallow.
Once, near the end, he opened his eyes and said, “Don’t mistake stillness for peace.”
“What does that mean?”
