The Papaya Summer

Margaret sat on her back porch, watching seven-year-old Lily practice her swimming strokes in the above-ground pool. The girl's orange swimsuit brightened against the blue water, a splash of color that reminded Margaret of the paper lanterns from the county fairs of her childhood.

'Grandma, look!' Lily called, executing a somewhat clumsy but determined freestyle. 'I'm getting better!'

'You certainly are,' Margaret replied, her silver hair catching the afternoon sun. She'd pulled it back in its customary bun, something she'd done every day for fifty years of teaching. 'Your grandfather would be proud. He loved the water.'

Lily climbed out, dripping and eager, reaching for her iphone on the patio table. 'I want to take a picture of the papaya tree! Mom said it finally has fruit!'

The papaya tree, Margaret's pride and joy, indeed hung heavy with three ripening fruits. She'd planted it twenty years ago, when her husband had brought home the exotic sapling from his travels. Now it stood as a living memorial, its broad leaves providing shade just as he had provided shelter and wisdom throughout their forty-seven years together.

'Show me how to use the camera again,' Margaret asked, and Lily patiently demonstrated, their fingers—paper-smooth and weathered—tracing the screen together.

Later, over papaya slices sprinkled with lime, they watched the sunset paint the sky in shades of coral and amber. 'Grandma,' Lily said softly, 'will you teach me to swim like you did?

Margaret smiled, thinking of all the afternoons she'd spent in this very pool with her own children, and now with their children. 'Of course, my darling. That's what grandmothers do. We pass things along—recipes, stories, and how to float through life's waters.'