What We Carry

Elena stood at the kitchen counter, forcing herself to chew the spinach salad David had prepared with such care three hours ago, before the confusion set in again. The wilted leaves tasted like obligation.

"You never missed a baseball game," David said from the living room, his voice carrying that particular clarity that came in the brief windows between the fog of his early-onset dementia. "Not even when it rained. Remember that time?"

She remembered. 1987. She was seven months pregnant, swollen and miserable, sitting on cold metal bleeds while he coached third base. She had loved him then with a love that felt like lightning—sudden, illuminating, terrifying in its intensity.

"I remember, David."

"What's it like now?" he asked. "The games? Do we still go?"

Elena's throat tightened. They hadn't been to a baseball game in twelve years. Not since the diagnosis. Not since the slow erosion of the man who could quote batting averages but forgot his own address.

The bear of it—this grief, this caretaking, this prolonged goodbye—had settled in her chest years ago and grown heavier with each forgotten anniversary, each meal cut into pieces, each night she slept beside a stranger wearing her husband's face.

Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the rain streaking down the windowpane. David turned toward the storm, eyes wide with childlike wonder.

"Beautiful," he whispered.

And then: "Who are you?"

The spinach turned to ash in her mouth. Elena swallowed, set down the fork, and walked into the living room to meet him again. To introduce herself again. To bear it again, because what choice did she have?

"I'm Elena," she said, taking his cold, papery hand. "I'm your wife."