The Pyramid of Stones

Margaret stood by the edge of the old community pool, its surface still except for the gentle ripples of autumn wind. At eighty-two, she'd returned to this place where her heart had first learned friendship's true meaning.

She remembered Ruth, her childhood companion who'd moved in next door in 1952. Ruth had been bold, adventurous, always dragging Margaret into their imaginary world. They'd played spy along the picket fence, whispering secrets into tin-can telephones, convinced the elderly widow across the street was a foreign agent. How Mrs. Higgins had laughed when she'd caught them!

"We weren't really spying," Margaret whispered to the empty pool deck. "We were just practicing for the boldness we'd need later."

By summer's end, they'd discovered Margaret's mother's spinach garden behind the garage. Its emerald leaves became their treasure—actual money in their game of espionage. They'd pinch fresh leaves and eat them raw, staining their fingers green, pretending it was the food of spies.

"Your spinach is our secret weapon," Ruth had declared solemnly.

The pool had been their sanctuary. They'd sit on its edge, feet dangling in the cool water, dreaming of the future. "When we're old," Ruth had said at fourteen, "we'll still be friends. We'll be like those ancient stones—layer by layer, building something that lasts."

That afternoon, they'd begun building a small pyramid of smooth river stones near the pool's edge. Each stone represented a promise, a dream, a secret they'd keep together.

Ruth had passed four years ago, but Margaret still added stones to their pyramid. The mound now stood three feet high, a monument to seventy years of friendship.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, smooth stone she'd brought from her garden—where spinach still grew every summer. She placed it carefully atop the pyramid.

"Still building, Ruth," she said softly. "Still building."