The Riddle of Summer Afternoons

Margaret stood on the back porch, watching six-year-old Leo at the edge of the above-ground pool, his toes curled tight against the metal ladder. The old golden retriever, Barnaby, lay nearby, his chin resting on his paws, occasionally lifting his head when Leo squealed.

'Just like your grandfather taught you,' Margaret called, leaning against the porch rail where she'd watched her own children learn to swim thirty years ago. 'Face the water. Trust it.' Leo took a breath and let go. Barnaby stood, tail thumping, as the boy began paddling—doggy style, Margaret thought with a smile. Arthur would have loved this. He'd taught all their grandchildren the same way, standing waist-deep in the chlorinated water, calling encouragement until they found their rhythm. Swimming wasn't just a skill, he'd said; it was learning to work with something instead of fighting it.

Later that afternoon, Margaret walked through the garden to the far corner where the concrete sphinx knelt, its nose worn smooth from three generations of children rubbing it for luck. Arthur had brought it home from a nursery run in 1972, convinced their backyard needed something mysterious. The children had spun elaborate stories about it—Egyptian princes, hidden treasures, prophecies delivered in dreams.

'Grandma?' Leo appeared behind her, damp towel around his shoulders. 'What's that lion lady?'

'That's a sphinx.' Margaret smoothed his hair. 'Your grandfather said she guards our garden's secrets.' She knelt beside the statue, pointing to the chipped hieroglyphs Arthur had painted on the base with house paint. 'See these? Your aunt drew them when she was your age. She thought the sphinx needed proper writing.' Leo studied the paint, then placed his small hand on the worn nose. 'Is she magic?'

Margaret thought of Arthur telling their children the same thing, how the real magic was in the believing. 'The magic is in remembering,' she said. 'Someday you'll bring your own children here, and you'll tell them about swimming lessons, and Barnaby, and the lion lady who watches over summer afternoons.' Leo frowned, trying to understand. Then he grinned, the same gap-toothed smile Arthur had had in his kindergarten photo. 'Can I bring my dog too?'

'Oh yes,' Margaret said, as Barnaby lumbered over and pressed his warm side against her leg. 'She's very fond of dogs.' The sphinx's stone eyes seemed to hold them all—Arthur's memory, Margaret's now, and the boy's future—in their patient gaze.