The Riddle in Her Pocket

Margaret sat at the kitchen table, the small device glowing in her weathered hands. Her granddaughter had given her this iphone, insisting it would keep them closer. At eighty-two, Margaret still preferred the heavy weight of letters, the tactile pleasure of pen on paper, but she was trying.

In the corner, her goldfish—Goldie, named by a now-gone son who'd left for college thirty years ago—swam his patient circles in the bowl. He was older than anyone expected, a survivor of cold winters and forgotten feedings, much like Margaret herself.

She pecked at the screen with one finger, hunting for the photos her daughter had promised to send. Instead, she found herself staring at a sphinx she'd carved from driftwood on a long-ago beach vacation with Arthur, before the Alzheimer's stole him piece by piece. The photo had been digitized without her knowing, the wooden riddle smile preserved in pixels.

"What are you smiling about, Grandma?" seven-year-old Leo asked, climbing onto the chair beside her. He smelled of orange segments and sunscreen.

"Just remembering," she said, showing him the sphinx. "Your grandpa carved this. He said it was holding onto a secret."

Leo frowned. "What secret?"

Margaret tapped her chest. "That's the riddle. The sphinx knows that some things aren't meant to be solved. They're meant to be kept."

She thought of all she'd carried: Arthur's last lucid words, the way her mother's voice sounded calling her in for supper, the weight of Leo's father when he was newborn and she'd thought her heart would burst with loving him.

The iphone chimed—a message from her daughter: "Thanks for keeping him today. You're our anchor."

Margaret smiled, typing slowly with one finger. The goldfish swam on. The sphinx kept its secret. Some things, she decided as Leo reached for her hand, didn't need solving. They just needed keeping.