I bought the oranges my husband no longer remembers

Dear Delyara, For fifty-three years, my husband chose the oranges. He would lift each one, press the skin near the stem, and reject any fruit that felt too light. I used to tease him for taking longer to buy six oranges than to choose our first apartment. Now he lives in a memory-care home and believes I am a woman who comes on Tuesdays to read the newspaper. This morning, at the market, I found myself standing before the fruit stall with both hands useless at my sides. The seller asked how many I wanted. I said six, then began lifting and weighing them the way my husband did, although I never understood what he was feeling for. I took the oranges to the care home. He was sitting near the window, folding a napkin into smaller and smaller squares. I peeled one and offered him a segment. He tasted it, frowned, and said, “My wife knows how to choose better ones.” I told him I was sure she did. He ate the rest anyway. Before I left, he placed one orange inside my handbag and whispered that I should take it home to my husband. I carried it back through the city like a message sent by a man to himself, through a wife he no longer recognised.