The Sphinx in the Garden

Margaret stood before the concrete sphinx that had guarded her grandmother's garden for forty years. Its weathered face, chipped paint and all, still held that mysterious half-smile — as if it knew secrets about all of us who'd sat beneath the spreading **palm** tree sharing summer stories.

"Grandma?" Seven-year-old Leo tugged at her cardigan sleeve. "Why do you have a lion-person in your garden?"

Margaret chuckled, the sound warm as morning coffee. "That, my darling, is a sphinx. Your great-grandfather brought it home from a nursery sale in 1978. Said it reminded him of me."

"Because you're old?" Leo asked, with the brutal honesty only children possess.

"No, you rascal," she swatted his shoulder gently. "Because sphinxes ask riddles, and your grandma always had more questions than answers."

She led him to the garden bench where papaya ripened on the kitchen counter inside. The fruit had been her late husband Arthur's favorite — "tastes like sunshine," he'd said, during those last months when his appetite faded but his wonder never did. Every papaya she bought since was a small ceremony, a sweet connection to the man who'd taught her that love ripens in patience.

"Grandma, what's your riddle?" Leo asked, suddenly serious.

Margaret studied her weathered hands, the palms mapped with eighty years of holding babies, planting gardens, and waving goodbyes. She thought of all she'd carried and all she'd released.

"My riddle is this," she said, pulling him close. "What can you hold in your hand but never keep?"

Leo furrowed his brow. Behind them, the sphinx watched with its eternal smile, while overhead the palm fronds whispered answers too ancient for words.

"Time?" Leo guessed.

"Close enough, my love. Close enough." Margaret pressed her palm against his small one. "The secret is in the holding, not the keeping."