A homeless man held up a cardboard sign that said, “Marry me. I only have one month left.” I said yes because I felt sorry for him. But after he died, a letter appeared in my mailbox.
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The homeless man I married always drank his coffee black outside my subway station in downtown Minneapolis. Six days after his funeral, a letter arrived in his shaky handwriting inside a thick white envelope. The postmark was dated one day before he…