The Sphinx of Sunset Years

Margaret sat on her porch, the crossword puzzle from Sunday's paper resting on her lap. She'd been staring at 47-Down for three days now: "Egyptian enigma with lion's body and human head (5 letters)."

" sphinx," she whispered, the word tasting like dust and adventure.

It was 1968 when Arthur first showed her the Sphinx. They'd saved for two years, that honeymoon in Egypt—two kids from Ohio with powdered eggs and naïve hearts. Arthur had taken her picture standing before that ancient stone face, her sundress whipping in the desert wind, her whole life spread out before her like an unwritten book.

"Remember how we used to run?" she'd asked him just last week, as he sat in his wheelchair by the window. "Running through the sprinkler, running for the bus, running toward each other at the airport..."

He'd patted her hand, his skin paper-thin and spotted. "We're still running, Maggie. Just slower now."

He was right. Their daughter Sarah called it "wandering" these days, but Margaret knew better. They were running through memories, through decades of breakfast tables and Christmas mornings, through sorrows deep enough to drown in and joys bright enough to light the darkness.

Her grandson Lucas burst onto the porch then, six years old and running nowhere in particular, his laughter trailing behind him like ribbons. "Nana! Come see what Mom brought back!

He dragged her to the kitchen where Sarah stood unpacking groceries from the specialty market in town. Sarah pulled something large and golden from a bag.

"Papaya," Sarah said. "Just like you and Grandpa had on your honeymoon, remember?"

The scent hit Margaret—sweet, musky, exotic. She hadn't tasted papaya since that hotel restaurant in Cairo, when Arthur had leaned across the table and whispered, "I'm going to spend fifty years trying to make you as happy as you are right now."

He'd overshot his mark. He'd made her happier.

That night, Margaret finally wrote "SPHINX" in 47-Down. The puzzle was complete, but some riddles were worth solving slowly, across a lifetime. She touched Arthur's empty pillow, grateful for every moment of their long, strange race toward the finish line.