The Vitamins of Love

Arthur sat at the kitchen table, the glass of orange juice catching the morning light. Seventy years of marriage, and still the routine felt sacred. One vitamin C tablet from the amber bottle – Margaret's careful ritual, even though she'd been gone three years now.

"Don't you forget your vitamins, Arthur Bear," she'd always say, her nickname for him stemming from the way he'd lumber sleepily through their first date. Now he whispered it to himself each morning, a benediction.

The orange tree in their backyard, planted the year they married, still flourished. Margaret had made marmalade from its fruit every winter, her hands stained with juice, the kitchen thick with citrus steam. The grandchildren now fought over who got to harvest the oranges each autumn, a small legacy of sweetness.

What Arthur remembered most, though, were those Saturday mornings in their fifties when they'd play padel at the community center. Margaret, competitive as ever in her white sneakers, calling out scores while Arthur pretended to let her win. They'd played well into their seventies, until Margaret's knees couldn't take it anymore.

"You're bearing down too hard, old man," she'd tease when he actually tried to win. Then she'd kiss his cheek, and they'd walk home holding hands, the orange sunset painting the sky behind them.

He took the vitamin now, swallowing it with the juice. The bear clock on the wall – a gag gift from their fiftieth anniversary party – ticked steadily. Margaret had given him so much: the vitamins that kept him healthy, the orange tree that fed three generations, the padel games that kept them moving together, and most of all, the courage to bear life's changes with grace.

Arthur smiled. The greatest vitamin, he realized, wasn't in any bottle. It was love – daily, faithful, and enduring as the sunrise.