The Fourth Inning Fox

Margaret sat on her porch, watching the autumn light paint gold across her weathered hands. At eighty-two, she'd learned that life, like a baseball game, moves in innings. Some you play with vigor, others you watch from the bench.

The old fox emerged from behind the garden shed - the same russet coat, the same limping gait. Margaret smiled. 'Still here, are you?' she whispered. This fox had been visiting for seven years, since just after Arthur passed. Margaret liked to think Arthur sent him - Arthur, clever as a fox himself, who'd once convinced their entire Sunday school class that he could read palms.

'Palms don't tell the future, Margie,' he'd said, squeezing her hand on their wedding day. 'They tell where you've been holding on tight.'

She'd held tight through sixty-one years. Through the summer of '67 when their son learned to swim in Lake Michigan, Arthur wading waist-deep, coaxing him past the fear. 'Trust the water,' he'd said. 'Trust yourself.' The same wisdom that carried their grandson through medical school.

Baseball had been Arthur's religion. Every Sunday, they'd listen to games on the radio while she shelled peas. 'Fourth inning, Margie,' he'd say. 'The game's not decided yet.' Good advice for life, really. At eighty-two, Margaret figured she was somewhere in the eighth.

The fox sat on his haunches, watching her with amber eyes. Margaret thought about Mrs. Livingston, her oldest friend, who'd taught kindergarten for forty years. 'Children are like wildflowers,' she'd say. 'Give them room, they'll surprise you.' Mrs. Livingston was gone now, but her wisdom lived in every child who'd sat cross-legged on her colorful rug.

Margaret's granddaughter Lily would visit tomorrow. They'd walk to the park, and Lily would help her grandmother, whose joints protested more each year. 'You're not old, Grandma,' Lily would insist. 'You're vintage.' The girl made Margaret laugh, made her feel the magic of swimming in a sea of love.

The fox dipped his head - a farewell? - and slipped back behind the shed. Margaret closed her eyes. 'Fourth inning, Arthur,' she whispered. 'And I'm still in the game.'