The Bull by the Orange Grove

Evelyn smoothed the faded photograph with trembling fingers. There it was—the ceramic bull, fierce and proud, guarding the edge of Mrs. Higgins' above-ground pool like some sentry from a forgotten age. The year was 1958, and the orange grove behind their house still perfumed the summer evenings with the sweet promise of tomorrow.

She and Margaret had been twelve then, two skinny girls in one-piece swimsuits, dangling their legs in the pool while Mrs. Higgins—her grandmother's oldest friend—sat on the glider in the shade, shelling peas and dispensing wisdom like it was candy. That stubborn old bull had been Margaret's prized possession from the county fair, and somehow it had ended up standing guard over their watery kingdom.

"You girls," Mrs. Higgins would say, her palm against her forehead as if we'd given her a headache, though her eyes crinkled with mirth, "are going to be the death of me yet."

Last week, Evelyn had visited Margaret at the nursing home. They're both seventy-eight now, Margaret's hands too twisted from arthritis to hold a coffee cup, let alone swim. But when Evelyn mentioned the bull, Margaret's eyes had brightened. "I still have him," she'd whispered. "He sits on my windowsill. He never left."

Some things, Evelyn realized, don't age like we do. Friendship stubborn as a bull. Sweet as an orange in July. The palm of memory holding fast to what matters, even when the water gets too deep for wading.