The Sphinx of Sunset Years

Margaret sat on her porch, watching seven-year-old Leo scramble through the bougainvillea like a secret agent. 'I'm a spy, Grandma!' he shouted, clutching his binoculars. 'On a dangerous mission!'

She smiled, remembering how she'd played the same games at his age under the very same palm tree that now swayed gently in the evening breeze. The house had been her childhood home, then her children's, and now here was the third generation leaving footprints on the worn wooden floorboards.

'Come here, you little spy,' she called, patting the wicker chair beside her. 'The sphinx has a question for you.' That was what her grandchildren called her now—the sphinx—keeper of riddles and stories, the ancient one who sat enigmatic and knowing on her porch throne.

Leo scrambled over, all knees and elbows. 'What kind of riddle?'

'Maybe one your great-grandfather taught me,' she said, turning her hand palm-up in her lap. She traced the lifeline that curved deep and long. 'He believed every palm tells a story. See this line? It means you'll live a long, adventurous life.' She tickled his palm, and he dissolved into giggles.

'That's not a real riddle!'

'All right, all right.' She adjusted her spectacles. 'What has roots as nobody sees, is taller than trees, up, up it goes, and yet never grows?'

Leo's forehead wrinkled in concentration. Just then, his mother emerged from the kitchen. 'A mountain!' Leo crowed, then bolted away to continue his surveillance mission.

Her daughter sat beside her, their shoulders touching. 'You know what Dad said before he passed? That you were the sphinx of this family—always knowing, always watching, keeping all our stories.' She took Margaret's hand, palm to palm. 'Now you're teaching Leo.'