The Bull by the Orange Pool

Every summer evening, I sit on my porch watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of tangerine and coral, that same brilliant orange that colored the world of my childhood. My thoughts drift, as they always do, to the summer of 1957, when I was twelve and thought myself grown-up enough to take on the world.

That was the summer my grandfather's ceramic bull — a stubborn, glossy-black creature he'd brought back from Spain — mysteriously disappeared from his garden. For weeks, my best friend Sarah and I transformed ourselves into makeshift spies, creeping around the neighborhood with cardboard tubes for binoculars, certain we'd catch the thief. We'd stake out the community pool, where teenagers congregated, convinced one of them had taken it.

'He's hiding something,' I'd whisper, pointing at the lifeguard with the slicked-back hair.

Sarah would nod solemnly, her freckled nose wrinkling with determination. 'We'll crack this case, Helen. Just like the spies in the pictures.'

We never did catch the bull thief. But one afternoon, returning from our surveillance mission, we found my grandfather sitting on his back porch, peeling an orange, the ceramic bull perched innocently on the table beside him.

'Grandpa!' I cried. 'Where was it?'

He smiled, his weathered face creasing with gentle amusement. 'The bull was never gone, child. I moved him because I wanted to see if you two would notice anything beyond your own adventures.' He held out a section of orange. 'Sometimes we're so busy looking for mysteries that we miss what's right in front of us.'

Now, at seventy-eight, I understand what he meant. Sarah's been gone for three years, and that old pool where we conducted our investigations was paved over decades ago. But every time I eat an orange, or see the sunset turn the sky that familiar burning color, I remember my friend, my grandfather's wisdom, and the summer we learned that some mysteries aren't meant to be solved — only cherished.