The Sphinx of Orange Grove

Every Sunday afternoon, I'd perch behind the orange tree in Grandmother's garden, my very own spy post. I was seven then, and the world held secrets I was certain only children could truly understand.

Grandmother—whom we called the Sphinx because she never answered questions directly, only with more questions—sat on her porch, peeling oranges with hands that told stories of their own. Her knuckles were like twisted roots, strong and weathered.

"You're running from something, or running toward something?" she'd ask, spotting my sneakers before I could duck back.

The summer I turned ten, Uncle Mike brought home a mechanical bull from his travels west. He'd made money in oil, lost it in casinos, and never seemed to learn. That bull sat in our backyard like a strange metal creature, Grandmother watching it shake and buck with my cousins atop, laughter ringing like church bells.

"Life throws you," she said, handing me an orange. "You hold on tight, you let go proud."

I didn't understand then. I understand now, at seventy-two, watching my own granddaughter hiding behind my apple tree, spying on this old Sphinx who's become her grandmother.

"Running toward something," I tell her, and she blinks, surprised I spotted her. "Always running toward something, my love."

The orange she accepts connects three generations of women who learned that wisdom isn't about answers—it's about asking the right questions, holding on tight, and letting go proud. Some days I still feel like that child behind the tree, spying on life's mysteries. Other days, I'm the Sphinx, pretending to know secrets that are simply love, passed down like perfectly peeled fruit, sweet and lasting.