In his letter, 10 pages long, he made requests.
I don't know whether I'm willing to carry them all out at his behest.
I know he had an ample supply of the fairer sex.
I know before his death, he said goodbye to most of them.
This is for the ones he may have forgotten.
I am unwilling to do this.
Though on account of what he has given me, I will acquiesce.
I can tell you for sure he had but one true love in this world.
Someone he came to love above all others.
He asked me to "Take good care of her."
And I have.
To the others, the other lovers,
he hopes he left you better than he found you;
he's asked that you continue,
the search for Love's promise—
that first feeling you get when you've found it.
He said he did.
He found it.
And it was absolutely worth it.
Even in death he praises it.
He wrote three names he wanted me to mention.
Told me where they lived.
Where to find them.
How they could be contacted.
He left money for them.
Said they deserved it.
And I've transferred it.
He asked me to check in, from time to time.
But I don't know these women.
They're not mine.
Though from afar, I'll keep an eye.
The worst part was when they asked what happened.
When you have all those images in your head you have to be very careful how you describe the condition of the DEAD.
"An unknown illness took hold," was all I said.
And "Did you get money?"
They replied "Yes."
"Good. My Best"
