Still Waters Run Deep

Margaret stood at the edge of the swimming pool, watching her grandchildren splash and laugh. At seventy-eight, she no longer swam laps, but the water still called to her — the same pool where she and Arthur had taught their children to float, where they'd celebrated countless July 4ths, where she'd scattered Arthur's ashes five years ago.

The porch door opened, and her grandson Toby emerged, racket in hand. "Grandma, want to learn padel?"

She laughed. "At my age?"

"You're never too old!" His enthusiasm was infectious, just like Arthur's had been. Lord, how that man had loved life. Stubborn as a bull when he believed in something — their first dance, their first home, her worth when she doubted her own. His stubbornness had been their anchor through fifty-two years of storms.

"Maybe next week," she said, knowing she'd likely forget. Her bones were tired, and truthfully, so was her heart.

Toby's phone chimed. A zombie game. Kids today, fascinated by the walking dead. Margaret understood the appeal now — how it felt to move through days half-asleep, going through motions while everything that made you *you* slowly faded.

That's why she'd started writing her memoirs. Arthur used to say she was clever as a fox, always finding third options when others saw only two. She'd navigated corporate glass ceilings, raised three children, and cared for dying parents by finding paths no one else could see.

Now she was navigating something harder: being the last one standing.

But as she watched a red fox dart between the nearby bushes — sleek, alert, very much alive — Margaret felt something shift. Arthur had been right about her stubbornness too. She wasn't done yet. Her legacy wasn't just in the children and grandchildren laughing in this pool, but in the stories only she could tell.

"Toby," she called, "bring that racket. Show me this padel."

He grinned. "That's the spirit!"

And as she stepped onto the court, Margaret Arthur understood something new: the water might be still, but underneath, she was still swimming against the current, still fighting for each moment, still stubborn as that bull, still clever as that fox, and most importantly — still very much alive.