“Where’d you learn it like that?” I asked.
Julian’s humming stopped. “Somebody used to sing it to me when I was a kid,” he said. “On my way to school.”
Then he changed the subject to the Reds’ bullpen.
By August, I was coming more than three times a week. Denise didn’t love that, but she didn’t stop me either. Julian’s pain was getting worse. His hospice nurse, a brisk woman named Tanya, told me privately that he probably had weeks, not months.
One rainy Thursday afternoon, we were halfway through a Scrabble game. He’d just played “HOME” on a triple word score. He didn’t write the points down. He just looked at the tiles for a long moment.
Then he looked at me.
“Marry me,” he said.
I actually laughed. I thought it was a joke.
He didn’t laugh.
“I know how this sounds,” he said. “I’m not confused. I’m not on too much morphine. I’ve thought about this for a long time. I’d like to die knowing I’m not alone.”
