The Last Meal

The vitamin aisle at Whole Foods had become her sanctuary. Not because Elena believed in the miracle of supplements anymore, but because it was where she could stand surrounded by promises of wellness without anyone expecting her to actually be well.

Three months since David's funeral, and she'd become connoisseur of other people's optimism. Elderberry for immunity. Ashwagandha for stress. A bottle of hope with a twenty percent markup.

"Excuse me, do these work?" The woman held up a bottle of B-complex. Her name tag said 'Manager' at some tech startup. The kind of place David had worked before the pancreatic cancer decided his calendar was no longer his own.

Elena almost lied. It would have been easier. "Honestly? They help if you're deficient. Otherwise, you're just creating expensive urine."

The woman laughed. "Blunt. I like that. My husband keeps telling me to take them. Says I'm always tired."

"Maybe you're just tired," Elena said. "Maybe that's allowed."

That night, she found herself at the stove, sautéing spinach the way David had taught her. Garlic first, just until fragrant. Then the spinach, collapsing from a mountain into something manageable. He'd made it for their anniversary dinner, that last time they'd both pretended everything wasn't about to change forever.

Her phone buzzed. A notification: 'Vitamin D deficiency linked to depression.' The algorithm's cruel attempt at helpfulness.

She'd forgotten to eat again. The spinach sat there, dark and slick, like something that had already given up.

In the morning, she drove north. Two hours outside the city, up where the roads narrowed and the cellular service thinned. Where David had wanted to retire. Where they'd never go now.

The ranger station had warnings posted: 'Bear activity reported. Secure all food.' Something about the absurdity of it struck her as funny. Here she was, carrying a grief so large it qualified as its own ecosystem, and they were worried about pic-a-nic baskets.

She hiked until her lungs burned, until her body demanded she acknowledge it still existed, still required oxygen, still needed. Standing at the overlook, watching the valley spread below like something that had never heard of cancer or vitamins or the obscene efficiency with which a life could end, she finally understood.

She would bear it. Not gracefully. Not willingly. But she would bear it.

That night, back at her empty stove, she reheated the spinach. Ate it standing up. Added salt. It tasted like something that might, eventually, be enough.