The Sphinx's Last Riddle

Walter stood before his bathroom mirror, running his fingers through what remained of his hair—silver strands thinned like autumn frost on a windowpane. At eighty-two, he'd grown accustomed to these small betrayals of the body.

Every Thursday, he visited Eleanor's grave. Today, he brought her a small paperweight: a sphinx she'd treasured, its stone face weathered by decades of curious hands. They'd bought it together in Egypt, forty-odd years ago, during that spring when they'd finally saved enough for the trip they'd promised themselves since courting days.

"You remember old Tom?" Walter whispered, placing the sphinx on her headstone. Tom, their best friend, had insisted on joining that Egypt trip despite his fear of flying. Walter smiled at the memory—Tom, white-knuckled and nauseous, refusing to miss an adventure.

He'd be seeing Tom later today. Thursday was their standing coffee date, decades strong. Tom was stubborn as the bull Eleanor's grandfather used to keep on his farm—a creature that would plant its hooves and refuse to budge, yet would carry children on its back with surprising gentleness.

Tom was like that. Bull-headed about politics, religion, and the proper way to brew coffee, but he'd showed up with casseroles when Walter's appendix burst, and sat with him for three nights straight when Eleanor passed.

The sphinx's riddle, Walter thought, wasn't what walks on four legs then two then four. The real riddle was how time could both steal and preserve. His hair might thin, and his friends might shuffle toward their endings, but love—that grew legs and learned to walk beside him.

He patted the sphinx's stone head. "See you next week, El. Bring coffee for Tom."