Because my heart had answered before my mind could.
Thomas was old enough to be my grandfather.
When the chaplain asked for rings, Thomas lifted his soda can, worked the pull tab loose with thin fingers, and slid it onto mine.
It was too big.
He laughed softly.
“We’ll pretend your finger is shy.”
For seven days, I was his wife.
“We’ll pretend your finger is shy.”
I signed forms.
Adjusted blankets.
Smuggled in better tea.
Sat beside him when 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?”
“Don’t mistake stillness for peace.”
His smile was faint.
“You’ll know.”
Then he slept.
He never woke up.
***
