The Sphinx of Sunset

Margaret sat on her back porch, watching her granddaughter Emma carefully place sliced papaya on a ceramic plate. The fruit's golden flesh reminded her of Hawaii, 1965—the year she and Frank had celebrated their twentieth anniversary by eating breakfast on a balcony overlooking the Pacific.

"Grandma, why do you have a sphinx in your garden?" Emma asked, pointing to the small concrete statue that had sat among the roses for forty years.

Margaret smiled. "Your grandfather bought it for me at a flea market. He said I was like the sphinx—full of riddles and secrets." She paused. "Really, I think he just loved that I kept him guessing."

The afternoon light was turning that particular shade of orange that only comes at the end of a perfect day. Margaret had learned to notice these things now that time moved differently. Each sunset felt more precious, each moment with family more weighty with meaning.

"You know," Margaret said, "that sphinx has seen everything. Your mother learning to ride a bike, your aunt's wedding reception in the backyard, the day we filled in the swimming pool."

Emma's eyes widened. "You had a pool?"

"For exactly one summer. Your grandfather decided we needed one, so he dug a hole in the yard. But by August, he realized maintaining it was more work than swimming in it was fun. So we made it into a garden instead. Your mother was furious—she'd just learned to dive." Margaret chuckled. "Your grandfather said wisdom was knowing when to admit a mistake."

The girl took a bite of papaya. "This is good. I never thought I'd like it."

"Life's full of surprises," Margaret said softly. "Some things you think you won't like become your favorites. Some losses turn into gardens. The trick is letting them."

Emma nodded slowly, considering this.

"What riddles does the sphinx ask now?" the girl finally asked.

Margaret squeezed her hand. "The same one it always has: What will you make of the time you're given?"