Larry’s letter had arrived less than a week after his funeral, sealed inside a thick white envelope.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
Uneven.
Shaky.
The same handwriting I had watched him use while completing forms at hospice.
The postmark was dated one day before he died.
When I first saw the envelope, I smiled.
I assumed Larry had written me a goodbye.
That would have been like him.
The man couldn’t accept a cup of coffee without thanking me three times.
Then I reached the next sentence.
“Nobody was going to bury me as a John Doe.”
My smile vanished.
I sat down.
“No.”
