Larry’s letter came six days after we buried him. I found it wedged between a phone bill and a grocery flyer, in a thick white envelope with my name written across the front in his handwriting. I knew that handwriting. I’d watched him fill out hospice forms with it, his hand shaking so badly the nurses offered to write for him. He always said no. “My hand still works,” he’d tell them. “Mostly.” I smiled when I saw the envelope. I thought Larry had written me a goodbye. The man couldn’t take a cup of coffee from me without thanking…
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