The Riddle of Seasons

Margaret stood in her garden, watching the **sphinx** statue she and Henry had purchased in Egypt forty years ago. Its stone face had weathered beautifully, much like their marriage—softening at the edges while holding firm at the center. The grandchildren called it "the riddle cat," always demanding she tell them the story of how she and Grandpa carried it home on the plane.

"It was simpler then," she murmured, running her fingers along the moss-growing wing.

From the patio, the rhythmic *thwack* of **padel** balls echoed. Her grandchildren—teenagers now, ages and ages away from the small children who'd once played in her sandbox—were at the community center. Henry would have loved watching them. He'd never even heard of padel, but he would have learned the rules instantly and been coaching them by the second game. That was his way.

Margaret's gaze drifted to the attic window, where she knew Henry's old **baseball** glove rested in a box alongside his letters from Korea and the pressed rose from their first date. She could still see him on that Sunday afternoon, playing catch with their son in the backyard, both of them laughing as the ball sailed over the fence into Mrs. Gable's petunias. Some memories didn't fade—they crystallized.

"You **bear** things differently now," she told the sphinx softly. "Loss used to feel like a weight. Now it's just... room."

The sun was setting, painting the sky in Henry's favorite colors—peach and lavender and gold. She remembered their last conversation, how he'd squeezed her hand and said, "The riddle isn't why we love, Maggie. It's how we keep loving even when we're alone."

She straightened, her knees popping with the familiar music of eighty-two years. Inside, the grandchildren would be returning, hungry and laughing, bringing the glorious chaos of youth into her quiet house. And she would listen, and she would smile, and she would piece together their stories, because that's what elders do—they hold the threads and weave them forward.

"You're not so mysterious after all," she whispered to the sphinx, turning toward the house. "Love's the only riddle worth solving."