After my mother’s death, my life didn’t fall apart drastically. It simply stopped moving forward.
I went to work.
I paid the bills.
I replied to the messages with smiley faces.
It simply stopped moving.
So I started volunteering at the hospital because, the first time I saw someone die alone, something inside me refused to go away.
I sat down with patients whose families lived very far away, or no longer cared, or were unable to come.
I was holding glasses of water.
Read magazines aloud.
I learned which rooms were always cold and which nurses seemed to hum under pressure.
I started working as a volunteer at the hospital.
People used to call me generous.
They were wrong.
I was hiding in the only place where grief made sense.
Thomas realized this before I did.
He was 72 years old, with sunken cheeks, a tired smile, and that green backpack always by his side.
I was hiding in the only place where grief made sense.
Sometimes I would find him near the cardiac ward.
Sometimes, near the vending machines, where he claimed the coffee was awful, but honest.
Sometimes, in the chapel, she would sit on the last pew, as if waiting for someone who might still arrive.
Thomas never spoke like a man on the verge of death.
He spoke like a man who was in control of everything.
Thomas never spoke like a man on the verge of death.
“Did the grandson of the cafeteria lady pass his driving test?” he once asked.
“I don’t know.”
“He was going to take it on Tuesday.”
“Do you remember this?”
Thomas shrugged. “She mentioned it.”
“Do you remember this?”
On another occasion, a maid came in humming while changing the trash bag.
“Good morning, Lila,” he said. “That song again?”
She laughed.
“My mother loved it, Tom.”
“I know.”
She paused. “Did you remember?”
He just smiled.
“My mother loved it, Tom.”
That was Thomas.
At least, that was the impression I got of him.
A kind man on the verge of death.
A lonely person.
***
On the fourth day, he proposed to me.
“Marry me, Sarah,” he whispered.
I stood paralyzed beside his bed with a glass of crushed ice in my hand.
On the fourth day, he proposed to me.
“Thomas…”
“I know.”
“You are very ill.”
“Yes.”
“We barely know each other.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“I know enough.”
“Enough to get married?”
“Enough to know that you’re the type of person who stays.”
“We barely know each other.”
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 was wearing the same knitted coat, but with a button missing.
A nurse asked me if I was sure. She said Thomas was old enough to be my grandfather.
I simply said yes.
Because my heart answered before my mind could.
CONTINUED ON THE NEXT PAGE.
