Riddles in the Pocket

Margaret sat in her favorite wingback chair, watching seven-year-old Lily swipe through her iPhone with practiced fingers. The device glowed like a small lantern in the afternoon sun.

"Grandma, the sphinx asks riddles," Lily said, showing her a mythology app. "But you know what's funny?"

Margaret smiled, her silver hair catching the light. "What, sweet pea?"

"Adults walking through the mall, all staring at their phones like zombies. Even you do it sometimes."

The observation struck Margaret with gentle force. She thought about her own husband, gone three years now, how they'd both spent their later years moving through routines like sleepwalkers—zombies of habit, she realized now. They'd forgotten to marvel at things.

"You're right," Margaret said softly. "We get so caught up in..." She waved her weathered hand.

"In what?"

"In forgetting that life is the riddle, not the answer."

Lily climbed onto her lap, the iPhone temporarily abandoned. "Like the sphinx?"

"Exactly like the sphinx. Every morning when we wake up, life asks us: What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in evening? And the answer isn't just crawling, walking, leaning. It's about how we live each phase."

Margaret kissed Lily's forehead. "Your grandpa Arthur—zombie-like as we became sometimes—figured it out near the end. He said the trick wasn't solving life, but staying curious enough to keep asking the questions."

She picked up the iPhone, its screen now dimmed. "This thing, it's not just a gadget. It's how you learn to ask better riddles than we ever did."

Lily took her hand, small fingers wrapping around papery skin. "Will you show me the sphinx riddles again tomorrow?"

"Every tomorrow," Margaret promised, feeling more awake than she had in years. "And maybe you'll help this old zombie remember how to wonder."