The Last Riddle

Ellen's breath rattled like dead leaves in autumn. I crushed the vitamin D supplement into her oatmeal, watching the powder dissolve into something resembling nothing at all. 'For your bones,' I whispered, though we both knew her bones weren't the problem anymore.

In the backyard, our ancient golden retriever, Moses, pressed his snout against the glass door. He'd been running in circles earlier, confused by the hospice bed in the living room, the new rhythm of our days. Now he just watched, his brown eyes holding more wisdom than I could bear.

Ellen pointed with trembling fingers toward the garden. 'The sphinx,' she said. 'We never finished it.'

The concrete statue had been our weekend project seven years ago, half-finished because life kept getting in the way. Now she was dying, and the sphinx still waited for its face, still asked its unanswered questions.

'I'm making soup,' I told her. 'Fresh spinach from the garden.' It was a lie, but a necessary one. The spinach had bolted weeks ago, bitter and gone to seed, like everything else.

She closed her eyes, a small smile touching her lips. 'You were never much of a gardener.'

'Neither were you.'

'True.' She exhaled, a long, slow release of air. 'But we built good things.'

Outside, Moses whined. I went to the door and let him in. He limped to her bedside, curled onto the rug, and rested his chin on her hand. The sphinx watched through the window, its mystery somehow solved. We'd never finish the statue. We'd never plant the spinach again. But here, in this room with its familiar smell of medicine and love, we had built something complete.

'Henry?' Ellen whispered.

'Yes.'

'The riddle's not about the answer.' She squeezed my hand, faint as a ghost. 'It's about asking.'

Outside, the sun began to set. The sphinx cast a long shadow across the lawn. Moses slept. And I held my wife's hand as the house filled with something like peace, something like an answer to questions we'd never needed to speak aloud.