The Riddle by the River

Margaret sat on her back porch, watching the golden retriever—her daughter's new puppy, a clumsy bundle of fur they'd named Buster—splash enthusiastically in the shallow end of the creek. The water caught the afternoon sun, scattering light like diamonds across the surface, and suddenly she was seventy years back in time.

She remembered old Mr. Abernathy, the neighbor who'd kept that magnificent stone sphinx in his garden, its wings half-spread as if frozen mid-flight. Every summer afternoon, the neighborhood children would gather on his porch, and he'd serve lemonade while posing riddles that made them think harder than any school assignment ever had.

"What runs but has no feet?" he'd asked once, eyes twinkling behind wire-rimmed glasses.

"A river!" young Margaret had shouted, triumphant.

Now, watching Buster shake water from his coat, spraying droplets like rain against the autumn leaves, Margaret smiled. Life, she'd learned, was much like Mr. Abernathy's riddles—simple on the surface, but deep and mysterious underneath. She'd buried her husband three years ago. She'd outlived her siblings. But here she was, still sitting by water, still finding joy in a dog's simple pleasure, still carrying forward the wisdom of those who'd taught her.

Her granddaughter Emma appeared beside her, handing her a fresh cup of tea. "You're smiling, Grandma. What are you thinking about?"

"About riddles," Margaret said, patting the empty seat beside her. "And how the best things in life—family, love, a warm afternoon—aren't really riddles at all. They're answers."

Buster bounded up the bank, wet and happy, and settled at Margaret's feet. The sun dipped lower. The water murmured on, carrying new riddles downstream, while the old ones remained, safe and sacred, in a grandmother's heart.