Larry\u2019s letter came six days after we buried him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019d watched him fill out hospice forms with it, his hand shaking so badly the nurses offered to write for him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He always said no.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMy hand still works,\u201d he\u2019d tell them. \u201cMostly.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I smiled when I saw the envelope. I thought Larry had written me a goodbye. The man couldn\u2019t take a cup of coffee from me without thanking me three separate times. Of course he\u2019d written a goodbye. He probably thanked me in it twice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I made tea. I sat at my kitchen table. I opened the envelope carefully, because it felt like the last thing I\u2019d ever get from him and I didn\u2019t want to tear it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The first line read:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSarah, I need to apologize before I thank you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I read it twice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
An apology was strange. Larry never had anything to apologize for. He was the one sleeping outside a subway station in January. I was the one who got to go home to a warm apartment every night and feel good about buying him socks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then I read the next line.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNobody was going to bury me as a John Doe.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The blood drained out of my face. I don\u2019t know how else to describe it. I felt cold from the top of my head down, the way you feel when a doctor pauses too long before saying something.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I set the letter down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I said, to nobody. My apartment was empty. The heater ticked. My tea went cold in front of me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Because I already understood what he was about to tell me. I understood it before I read the rest. And the understanding sat in my chest like a stone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Larry had lied to me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The whole thing had been a lie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Let me back up, because you need to know how it started, or none of the rest will make sense.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I met Larry two years before he died, though \u201cmet\u201d isn\u2019t the right word. You don\u2019t meet the man who sits outside your subway station. He\u2019s just there one day, part of the scenery, like the newspaper box and the broken parking meter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The first winter, I walked past him the way everyone walks past. Eyes forward. Fast pace. I told myself I was busy, which was true, and I told myself somebody else would help him, which was a lie people tell themselves every single day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then one morning I bought two coffees by accident.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019d been on the phone with my sister, half paying attention, and I ordered on autopilot. One with cream. One black. My sister always drank hers black and I must have been thinking about her. By the time I hung up, I was standing there holding a coffee I didn\u2019t want, and Larry was six feet away, blowing on his hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I don\u2019t know why I gave it to him. It was easier than throwing it out, maybe. It was easier than carrying it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou take it black?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked up at me like I\u2019d said something suspicious.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat the only kind you got?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s the only kind I\u2019ve got extra.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He took it. He wrapped both hands around the cup and closed his eyes for a second, just feeling the heat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBlack\u2019s fine,\u201d he said. \u201cBlack\u2019s how I take it anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That was it. That was the whole thing. I went to work. I didn\u2019t think about it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But the next morning, without deciding to, I ordered two.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And then it was just what I did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Every weekday for two years, I bought two coffees at the kiosk beside the station. Mine with cream. His black. I\u2019d hand him his cup and we\u2019d talk for five minutes, and then I\u2019d rush off to my office and my spreadsheets and my life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Larry never begged me for anything. That\u2019s the thing people don\u2019t believe when I tell them. In two years, he never once asked me for money. He never asked me for anything at all. If I brought him something, he took it and thanked me. If I didn\u2019t, he never mentioned it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But he talked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
God, could that man talk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Some mornings we discussed the weather like two farmers. Other mornings he complained about the pigeons, which he claimed had a personal grudge against him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat gray one,\u201d he said once, pointing. \u201cThat one\u2019s been casing me for a week. He\u2019s planning something.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe\u2019s a pigeon, Larry.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s what he wants you to think.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One morning he looked down at my shoes and shook his head slowly, like a doctor delivering bad news.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWho designed those?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThey\u2019re work shoes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThey were designed by somebody who hated feet, Sarah. Somebody who woke up one morning full of hate, looked down at his own feet, and thought, I\u2019ll make everyone suffer like I suffer.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my coffee. A man in a suit stared at me like I was crazy, a woman in heels laughing with a homeless man outside the F train.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That was Larry. I never knew his last name for the longest time. I never asked where he\u2019d come from or how he\u2019d ended up on that patch of concrete. It seemed rude, somehow, and he never offered. We just had our five minutes. Mine with cream. His black.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I want to be honest about something. I thought I was a good person for those five minutes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I really did. I\u2019d walk into my office feeling warm, feeling like I\u2019d done my small kind thing for the day. I bought him socks in the winter. I once spent half my lunch break calling shelters when the temperature dropped below zero, going down a list, getting hung up on, getting put on hold, until I found him a bed for two nights.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I brought him the address written on a napkin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019ll go?\u201d I asked. \u201cPromise me you\u2019ll go.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019ll go.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLarry.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019ll go, Sarah. Cross my heart.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He thanked me for that napkin like I\u2019d handed him the deed to a house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I felt wonderful.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It never once occurred to me, in two whole years, that Larry might be learning something too. That every time I solved a problem for him, I was teaching him exactly how I worked. What I responded to. How to reach me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I thought I was studying him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was studying me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The freezing Tuesday came at the end of January.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I remember it was cold enough that the coffee steam looked like smoke, and my breath hung in the air in front of me. I bought the two coffees and walked over to Larry\u2019s spot, and I stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Because Larry looked terrible.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His skin had gone a strange yellowish color, like an old photograph. His lips were pale. His hands, when I gave him his cup, trembled so badly the lid rattled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And across his knees he held a piece of cardboard. On it, in thick black marker, he\u2019d written:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
MARRY ME. I HAVE ONE MONTH LEFT TO LIVE.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stood there. The traffic noise seemed to fade out, the way it does in movies, except this was real and it was happening to me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat is this?\u201d I said, pointing at the sign.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at the cardboard like he\u2019d forgotten it was there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe clinic gave me about a month.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I don\u2019t remember deciding to sit. I just found myself on the cold concrete beside him, my nice work coat pressed against the dirty wall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d I said. \u201cA month for what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLiver failure.\u201d He said it plainly, the way you\u2019d report the score of a game. \u201cIt\u2019s been coming a while. Went to the clinic when I couldn\u2019t keep anything down. They ran their tests. Gave me the number.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLarry.\u201d My throat closed up. \u201cLarry, I\u2019m so sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDon\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDon\u2019t what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDon\u2019t make that face.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat face?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe one people make when they\u2019re already standing at your funeral.\u201d He took a sip of his black coffee. \u201cYou\u2019re doing it right now. Cut it out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Even then, dying, he could make me laugh. A wet, terrible laugh, but a laugh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But the sign wasn\u2019t funny. The sign was still sitting there on his knees.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhy marriage?\u201d I asked. \u201cOf everything. Why that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His eyes dropped to his coffee. For the first time in two years, Larry looked like he didn\u2019t want to talk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t want to die belonging to nobody,\u201d he said finally.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t belong to nobody. You\u2019ve got\u2014\u201d I stopped, because I realized I didn\u2019t actually know who he had. \u201cYou\u2019ve got people who care about you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s a nice thing to say, Sarah. It\u2019s a different thing on a form.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He explained it to me then, in that quiet voice. He told me that a man with no legal family, no wife, no children on record, doesn\u2019t get buried by someone who loved him. He gets processed. Some county clerk, some overworked stranger, signs him over to a city plot. No name that means anything. No one to say the words.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI just want somebody who can walk in and say, \u2018He\u2019s mine. I\u2019ll take him.\u2019\u201d He looked at me. \u201cThat\u2019s all. That\u2019s the whole thing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And here is where I have to tell you the truth about myself, because it matters.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I was single. I\u2019d been single for a long time. I was thirty-eight years old and I lived alone and I was very, very good at solving other people\u2019s problems, mostly because I\u2019d never learned how to sit with my own.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Larry was dying. He\u2019d handed me a problem. A clean, solvable problem, with a form at the end of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I had always been better at solving problems than walking away from them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOkay,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He blinked. \u201cOkay?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOkay. Yes. I\u2019ll do it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at me for a long moment. Something moved across his face that I didn\u2019t understand at the time. I thought it was relief. Later I\u2019d wonder if it was something closer to guilt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t have to decide right now,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI just did.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He nodded slowly. He folded up the cardboard sign and set it aside, and he never held it up again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThank you,\u201d he said. And then, because he was Larry: \u201cThank you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s twice.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThank you,\u201d he said a third time, and grinned, and I punched him lightly in the arm, and that was how I agreed to marry a homeless man outside a subway station on a freezing Tuesday morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I told my friend Dana that night. Dana and I had worked together for six years and she was the only person I told anything to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We were at the wine bar near the office, the one with the sticky tables, and I said it as casually as I could.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSo I\u2019m getting married.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dana had her glass halfway to her mouth. She set it back down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019re\u2014what? To who? Sarah, are you seeing somebody? Since when?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou know Larry. Coffee Larry. The guy at my station.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She stared at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe homeless guy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDon\u2019t say it like that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow am I supposed to say it? Sarah.\u201d She lowered her voice, leaned across the table. \u201cYou\u2019re marrying the homeless man who lives at your subway stop.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe\u2019s dying, Dana. Liver failure. He\u2019s got a month, maybe less. He doesn\u2019t want to be buried as a nobody. If I marry him, I can claim him. I can make sure he gets\u2014\u201d I heard my own voice crack and hated it. \u201cI can make sure somebody buries him with his name.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dana was quiet for a second. She reached over and put her hand on mine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHoney,\u201d she said. \u201cThis is a lot. Even for you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat does that mean, even for me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou know what it means.\u201d She wasn\u2019t being cruel. Dana was never cruel. \u201cYou collect people. You always have. The intern nobody would train, you trained him. Your neighbor with the leg, you did her grocery runs for four months. You are the person who fixes things. And I love that about you. But you can\u2019t fix dying, Sarah.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m not trying to fix dying,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m trying to fix the paperwork.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at me for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd after?\u201d she said. \u201cWhen it\u2019s done. When he\u2019s gone. What then?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t have an answer. I hadn\u2019t thought about after. I\u2019d only thought about the problem in front of me, the clean solvable problem, the way I always did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThen I\u2019ll have done a good thing,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dana squeezed my hand and let it go.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019re a good person,\u201d she said. \u201cI just hope this is for him and not for you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t understand what she meant.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Now, thinking back, I think she saw it before I did. She saw that I needed to be needed the way some people need to be loved. That I\u2019d built a whole life out of showing up for other people so I\u2019d never have to sit still long enough to notice how alone I was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Larry saw it too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He saw it better than anyone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Two days later, we went to the courthouse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Larry wore a clean blue button-down shirt. Someone at the shelter had given it to him, he said, though it hung loose on his shoulders because he\u2019d lost so much weight. He\u2019d washed his face and combed his hair and he looked, for one afternoon, like a regular man dressed up for something.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I wore my navy work dress. The nice one. I\u2019m not sure why I bothered. Some part of me must have felt it mattered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The courthouse waiting room was full of couples. A woman in a white jumpsuit was fixing her lipstick in a compact while her fianc\u00e9 held her little bouquet like it might explode. A toddler was crawling under the plastic chairs, and his father kept diving after him and coming up empty-handed. Everyone looked nervous and happy, the way people look before they promise something big.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Larry and I sat in a row near the back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He kept rubbing his palms against his pants. Back and forth. Back and forth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019re shaking,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked down at his own hands like they belonged to someone else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m dying,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019m allowed to shake.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I accepted that. Of course I accepted that. What else would it be? The man was in liver failure. His hands were supposed to shake.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t think about it again for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When they called our names, we went into a small room with a wooden arch against one wall. A clerk read us the words. Larry answered when he was supposed to answer, his voice steady even though his hands weren\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When the clerk got to the part about rings, Larry patted his shirt pocket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cKnew I forgot something.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The clerk smiled. She\u2019d clearly heard it before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I laughed. A few of the people waiting glanced over.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then the clerk had us sign. Larry asked twice where his signature went. Twice. A man who, it turned out, had spent twenty-eight years working in that exact building, asking a junior clerk where to sign his own marriage license.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I teased him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019re acting like this is a real wedding.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He went quiet for a second. Just a second. Then he smiled at me, and there was something underneath the smile I didn\u2019t read at the time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFirst marriage,\u201d he said. \u201cLet me have my nerves.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I laughed again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Eleven minutes after we walked in, I was Larry\u2019s wife.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Outside, on the courthouse steps, I bought us celebratory hot dogs from a cart because it felt like we should do something. Larry ate his slowly. He folded up his copy of the marriage certificate and tucked it into his shirt pocket, and he pressed his hand flat over it for a second, like he was making sure it was still there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou okay?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNever better,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I believed him, because believing him was easier than asking what else might be true.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The three weeks we had after that went fast and slow at the same time, the way the last part of anything always does.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Larry moved into the state hospice facility. I\u2019d arranged it, of course. I\u2019d made the calls and filled out the forms and argued with an intake coordinator until she found him a bed. It was clean and quiet and smelled like disinfectant and something floral underneath, and Larry had a bed by a window that looked out at a parking lot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cRoom with a view,\u201d he said the first day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I visited every evening after work.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And every single visit started the same way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019d walk in carrying something. Better socks, because his old ones had holes. A phone charger, so he could reach me. A new blanket, because I decided the hospital one was too thin. A whole bag of toiletries once, enough for six months, which was a strange thing to buy a man who had three weeks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019d come through the door already talking, already unpacking, already looking for a nurse to flag down about something.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And Larry would say, from the bed: \u201cSit down, Sarah.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I\u2019d say, \u201cIn a minute.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There was always another minute of something to do. Another form at the front desk. Another nurse to ask about his pain medication. Another problem I could put my hands on. I\u2019d fluff his pillow and organize his side table and refill his water cup and check the schedule and do everything except the one thing he actually asked me to do.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou bought me socks again,\u201d he said one evening, holding up the new pack.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYour feet were cold.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMy feet are always cold. I\u2019m dying. That\u2019s a feature, not a bug.\u201d He set the socks down. \u201cSit down, Sarah.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI want to talk to that nurse about your\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSarah.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201c\u2014medication, because you said last night it wasn\u2019t lasting\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSarah.\u201d His voice was soft but it stopped me. \u201cThe socks are great. Thank you. Sit down.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I sat. On the very edge of the chair, ready to spring up again. He watched me do it and shook his head a little, but he was smiling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou know what you are?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat am I?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019re a hummingbird. You never land. You just hover over a thing and drink from it and zip off to the next thing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s not true.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019ve been here nine minutes and you\u2019ve stood up four times.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I opened my mouth to argue and then closed it, because I realized I was, at that very moment, half out of my seat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I sat back down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSee,\u201d he said. \u201cYou can do it. Now don\u2019t move.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We talked. About nothing, mostly, the way we always had. The pigeons. My terrible shoes, which he continued to insult from his deathbed. A game show playing on the little wall-mounted TV. He told me a story about a coworker from some job he\u2019d once had, a man who ate a hard-boiled egg at his desk every single day at exactly ten in the morning, and how the whole office could set their watches by the smell.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Larry\u2019s 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\u2019d watched him fill out hospice forms with it, his hand shaking so badly the …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":20923,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-20921","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20921","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=20921"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20921\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":20924,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20921\/revisions\/20924"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/20923"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=20921"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=20921"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=20921"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}