My wife made me baked apples. “Absolutely anybody can bake an apple” she said dismissively, eyeing me with pity. Half my face swollen like a cantaloupe in August, the inside of my mouth bandaged from dreaded dental work, I’m reduced to foods easily slurped. With butter and ginger and cinnamon, the apples roasted until skins separated from flesh, pulp withering into liquid caramel.

Partnerships are trying. On off days, suburban-thin walls can’t contain slammed doors, hurled words, stony silences. Other moments are like a giddy float down a bulging river in late May, just the two of you with the hawks and eagles, wildflowers ablaze. But on days such as this, I’m leaning into her hard; grateful, appreciative, resentful of the need for care, without words.

My wife made me baked apples.