Riddles by the Pool

The old golden retriever, Buster, moved with the slow deliberation of age—his once-frantic running now a gentle walk through memories. I watched him from my wheelchair as he made his way toward the pool, where my great-grandchildren splashed and shouted, their movements liquid grace under the summer sun.

Seventy years ago, I would have been in there with them. Back then, I was always running—from responsibility, toward adventure, across the burning sands of Egypt during my service days. That's where I first saw the Sphinx, her limestone face worn smooth by millennia of wind and wisdom. She seemed to know something I didn't: that all questions eventually answer themselves if you live long enough.

Now, sitting beside my own small sphinx statue—a faithful replica that's traveled with me through five marriages, three careers, and countless houses—I understand what the original meant about patience. The riddle wasn't the point. The waiting was.

"Great-Grandpa!" called Emma, my youngest great-granddaughter, water streaming from her hair like liquid amber. "Buster wants to swim!"

The old dog stood at the pool's edge, hesitating. I remembered when he was a puppy, charging into any body of water without fear. Now he understood something about caution that comes only with time.

"Let him decide, sweetheart," I called back. "Sometimes the hardest part is knowing when to jump and when to watch."

Buster chose to lie in the sun instead, his golden fur matching the light. The children laughed, understanding in their own way. They would learn. We all do, eventually—just as the Sphinx had taught me so many years ago, standing beneath that Egyptian sky, young and full of questions I wouldn't have answers to for decades.

Some riddles, I'd discovered, don't need solving. They just need living.