Swimming Back to Summer

The papaya tree in Arthur's backyard had been his pride and joy for thirty-seven summers. Every Sunday, I'd walk over—my knees clicking like old door hinges—and he'd be out there with his watering can, singing to those broad leaves like they were his grandchildren.

'They like it when you talk to them,' he'd insist, handing me the sweetest, sunset-colored fruit I'd ever tasted. 'Just like people. We all want to be seen.'

Arthur was my oldest friend. We'd met at the creek when we were ten, both dangling our feet in water cool enough to make you gasp. He'd dared me to go swimming in my clothes. I did. He didn't. That was Arthur—always generous with other people's courage.

Last week, at eighty-three, he told me about the fox.

'She comes every morning at dawn,' he said, his voice trembling with something like wonder. 'Sits right there under the papaya tree. We watch each other. I think she's waiting for the fruit to drop.'

I should have known. Arthur, with his bad heart and gentle hands, had been feeding wildlife since before I met him. The fox wasn't stealing; she was being invited.

He passed two days ago in his sleep. Found him with his gardening gloves still on. The papaya tree was heavy with fruit.

I went over this morning to water it. Sat there in the dawn quiet, waiting. And then she appeared—lean and russet, eyes like old gold. She didn't run. Just settled beneath those broad leaves and watched me, waiting for someone who'd never come again.

I left three papayas in the grass for her. A legacy arrangement between friends.

Some mornings, I think about going swimming in the creek again, clothes and all. Arthur would laugh himself hoarse. Then I remember: I don't need to prove anything anymore. At my age, you learn that the bravest thing is simply showing up for those who showed up for you.

The fox visits me now. I think Arthur sent her.