What the Sphinx Whispered

Margaret smoothed the wrinkled photograph with trembling fingers, her eight-year-old grandson Toby peering over her shoulder. That's your great-grandfather, she said, pointing to the stern-faced man standing before the Great Sphinx of Egypt. He always said that old riddle-maker taught him the most important lesson of his life.

What lesson? Toby asked, scooting closer on the braided rug.

Margaret smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. The sphinx asked, What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, and three in the evening? The answer is a human being—crawling as a baby, walking upright in adulthood, and leaning on a cane in old age. But your great-grandfather said the real wisdom wasn't in the answer. It was in the asking.

She nodded toward the battered teddy bear on her bookshelf, its brown fur patchy from love. That's Benedict. He came to America in 1918 with your great-great-aunt. She carried him through Ellis Island, through the Depression, through every dark night. He's been leaned on more than any cane.

Toby reached for the bear gently. Can I hold him?

Of course, dear. Margaret paused, studying Toby's small palm as he took the bear. You know, my mother used to read palms at church festivals. She saw lines and patterns, but she always said the most important things weren't written in our hands—they were written in our hearts.

What did she see in yours?

Margaret's golden retriever, Atticus, chose that moment to nudge Toby's knee, his tail thumping a steady rhythm against the sofa. This wise old soul has been my witness for twelve years, Margaret said, scratching Atticus behind the ears. Dogs know things. They know who needs comfort, who needs a playful nudge, who needs to sit in silence.

She looked around her living room—at the sphinx paperweight from her husband's travels, the bear that had comforted three generations, the palm frond pressed in a Bible from her parents' honeymoon, the dog who had become her family after hers were grown.

The sphinx teaches us we change, Margaret said softly. The bear reminds us we endure. The palm shows us what we hold dear. And the dog? She scratched Atticus's chin. The dog teaches us how to love without measure.

Toby hugged Benedict tighter. Can I take Benedict to show-and-tell?

Margaret laughed, a warm, rich sound. The sphinx would approve of that question, my dear. The sphinx would indeed.