The Sphinx Knew All Along

Eleanor's papaya tree had finally borne fruit after three years of patience, its golden fingers reaching toward the Florida sun just as Arthur's Sphinx had predicted. The garden statue—a limestone replica her brother had shipped from Cairo after the war—had sat through sixty hurricane seasons, its chipped face holding secrets Arthur swore came to him in dreams.

'My grandfather told me,' Arthur had said, fifty years ago over fresh papaya at their wedding breakfast, 'that a Sphinx remembers what we forget.' He'd laughed, wiping orange juice from his chin. 'Give it fifty years, Ellie, and you'll see.'

Now Arthur was gone two years, and Eleanor found herself sitting beside the Sphinx each morning, sharing her papaya with Buster—their golden retriever who seemed to understand more than any dog ought to. At eighty-two, she'd become the Sphinx's confidante.

'He was right about everything else,' she whispered to the stone ears. 'The papaya tree. The orange sunsets. Even Buster, who found me when I needed him most.' She'd made a friend in Mrs. Chen from down the street, another widow who'd walked over with zucchini bread the week after Arthur's funeral. 'Some Sphinx you are,' Eleanor added gently. 'Couldn't you have warned me loneliness feels like hunger?'

Buster nudged her hand, and Eleanor broke off another piece of papaya. The Sphinx's painted eyes seemed to soften.

'But then again,' she smiled, watching an orange butterfly land on the statue's shoulder, 'maybe you did.'