The Morning Ritual

Martha stood at the kitchen counter, her arthritis-creaked fingers working the orange juice container with practiced tenderness. Seven a.m. Every morning for fifty-three years. Some things, she'd learned, anchor you when the world spins off its axis.

"You're a zombie until you've had your vitamins," Arthur had always teased, nudging her toward the kitchen with that crooked grin that made her forgive him for leaving the toothpaste cap off again. He'd been gone eight months now, and still she reached for the second vitamin on the counter before remembering.

Their friend Eleanor had called yesterday, checking in as she did every Tuesday since the funeral. "You're not eating enough, Martha." Such a friend — the kind who shows up with casseroles and sits with you in the silences that used to belong to someone else.

Martha swallowed her vitamin with the orange juice, watching the sunlight paint the kitchen table golden. This was where Arthur had sat reading the paper every morning, where they'd discussed grandchildren, mortgage payments, and which perennials were zombie plants — the ones that kept coming back no matter how harsh the winter.

She smiled remembering their last anniversary. Eighty-two years old between them, and Arthur had still called her his bride. "You know what makes a marriage?" he'd said, squeezing her hand. "It's being someone's friend first. Everything else is just details."

The vitamin bottle was nearly empty. She'd need to ask her daughter to pick up more on Saturday's visit. Another thing Arthur used to do. Another task that belonged to the team they'd been.

Martha opened the back door and stepped onto the porch. The zombie peonies Arthur had planted were pushing through the soil again, stubborn and beautiful against all odds. Some things, she decided, don't die at all. They just return in a different season.

She whispered to the morning air: "You were right, Arthur. Friendship is the best vitamin of all."