The Sphinx by the Pool

Margaret sat on her back porch, watching seven-year-old Leo propped on the pool float like a miniature sphinx, his elbows resting on the bright blue vinyl as he pondered the mysteries of the universe — or at least the mystery of why his grandfather kept falling asleep in the Adirondack chair beside her.

'Grandma,' Leo called out, 'Dad says you're basically a zombie before your morning coffee.'

Margaret laughed, the sound warm and easy. 'Tell your father that zombies don't knit sweaters, and they certainly don't make homemade orange scones.' She gestured to the plate on the wicker table between them. The citrus scent wafted through the summer air, mingling with the smell of chlorine and cut grass.

Her iPhone buzzed on the table — Sarah checking in from college. Margaret still marveled at how this small glass rectangle could hold her granddaughter's voice, her photos, her entire unfolding life across three states. In her day, long-distance calls had meant standing in the hall kitchen, waiting for the operator, counting every minute like gold coins.

'You know,' Margaret said, setting down her phone, 'when I was your father's age, we didn't have answers in our pockets. We had to sit with questions. Like the sphinx — riddles without easy solutions.' She nodded toward the garden statue her husband had bought thirty years ago, now weathered and covered in moss, watching over their years like a silent guardian.

Leo paddled to the pool's edge. 'What kind of riddles?'

'Oh, the important ones.' Margaret's eyes crinkled with wisdom earned through seven decades. 'How to love people who are hard to love. How to say goodbye when you're not ready. How to find joy even when — especially when — life doesn't go according to plan.' She paused, watching a dragonfly hover over the water's surface. 'The trick is, Leo, the sphinx never gives you the answer. You have to live your way into it.'

Leo considered this, splashing water thoughtfully. 'Did you live your way into it?'

'Still am, sweetheart.' Margaret reached for an orange, peeling it slowly, the spray of essential oils misting the air. 'That's the secret nobody tells you about being old. You don't arrive. You just keep arriving.'

Her husband stirred in his chair, murmuring something about the sphinx needing sunglasses. Margaret smiled. Some riddles, she thought, were worth spending a lifetime unraveling.