The Lightning in the Garden

Margaret stood in her granddaughter's bedroom, watching eleven-year-old Sophie carefully arrange the new aquarium on her dresser. The cable TV repairman had just left after installing the upgraded connection Sophie had begged for, but the girl's attention was already elsewhere.

"You know," Margaret said, leaning against the doorframe, "when I was your age, we didn't have cable. We had three channels, and if you wanted to watch something special, you had to plan your whole week around it."

Sophie nodded absently, her fingers trailing through the water as the goldfish—a prize won at the church carnival—swam in lazy circles. "That sounds boring, Grandma."

"Boring?" Margaret chuckled. "Maybe. But we talked more. We listened. Your grandfather and I would sit on the porch and just watch the world go by. We'd see the same old fox trotting through the backyard every evening at dusk. That fox lived there for seven years, Sophie. Longer than some people keep pets."

The goldfish surfaced, bubbles rising from its mouth like tiny secrets.

"What happened to the fox?" Sophie asked, finally looking up.

"Oh, he grew old. One winter he just stopped coming. But that's life, isn't it?" Margaret pushed herself upright, her joints stiffening as she always did now when she moved too quickly. "Everything has its season. Even things that seem like they'll last forever."

Lightning flickered beyond the window, illuminating the room in a brief, silver flash. Sophie gasped, startled.

"It's just a storm coming," Margaret soothed. "Your grandfather used to say lightning was God's camera flash—capturing moments we'd otherwise forget." She paused at the doorway. "That goldfish probably won't live to see next Christmas, sweetheart. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't love him while he's here."

Margaret walked toward the kitchen as thunder rumbled overhead, thinking of the boxes in her closet filled with photographs—her own lightning-bolt moments, preserved. Some things, she supposed, you did get to keep.

"Grandma?" Sophie called out. "You think the fox's babies still live back there?"

Margaret smiled at the ceiling. "I certainly hope so, sweet girl. I certainly hope so."