I was 12 years old when my mum finally 1）cajoled my grandmother into buying a one-way ticket to Texas. It was 1994， and my grandmother—an 2）azure-eyed， high-cheeked beauty—was already well into the mid-stages of Alzheimers disease. It had been a few months since my family had last seen her and we werent sure what to expect. “Do you still have the same 3）plaid suitcases？” My mother asked my grandmother at the airport， as we eyed the 4）baggage carousel. “Oh，” my grandmother said.“I forgot to bring anything！ I guess well have to go shopping.” To conceal our dismay， my parents and I turned back to the whirring 5）conveyor belts， which soon spat out the familiar plaid bags.

A week or so later， we all took a trip to the 6）Dallas Museum of Art. In the museum gift shop， my grandmother bought for me a childrens book about the 7）Rosetta Stone. To my significant disappointment， I saw on the books cover that the Rosetta Stone was not the fist-sized jewel I had imagined； it was just a cracked slab of granite with a bunch of ancient scribbling. It might not look like much， my grandmother told me， but this was the key that unlocked the mysteries of ancient Egypt. The Rosetta Stone， I read in that book， had been found only a couple of hundred years ago， and its 8）inscription was just the boasting of some minor Pharaoh from the dying Egyptian empire. And yet， the Stone displayed the same message written in three languages， and it had been the close study of it that made legible the Egyptiansanimal-cracker markings， a cipher that unlocked all the great texts written on the stones and scrolls of a long-dead kingdom. A few days later， in return， we gave my grandmother the gift of a 9）leather-bound， 10）gilded journal. My parents and I encouraged her to write down her thoughts and memories in it. We tried to be encouraging， we tried to stay hopeful， but at 2：15am on September 9 of that year， we lost her thoughts and memories forever. My grandmother slipped while wandering through my aunts dark house and fell to her death at the base of the basement-black staircase.

Many years passed， I grew up and then I grew older. Yet I also wondered if， in some ways， I was growing backward， into my familys past. When I was 20—after a five-day， electric bout of insomnia—a doctor gave me the same diagnosis， 11）bipolar disorder， that another doctor had once given my grandfather， just a few years before his early， mysterious death. Then， just as my mum had once 12）fretted over the slips and omissions in my grandmothers memory， I began to make similarly fretful assessments of my mum. In these， and in many other ways as well， my own future felt bound to my grandmothers deep and silent history， all the stories that we had also lost when we lost her.

One summer day， when I was 25， I searched my familys house for something to read. Scanning the contents of an old pile of books that a housekeeper had long ago boxed and put in a closet， my eyes caught on a familiar 13）spine， and I slipped it free. In my hands was the journal we had given my grandmother， 13 years before.

I held my breath as I cracked open the front cover， hoping for something impossible—a story of her life？ A full account of everything she wanted me to know？ On the very first page my grandmother had written two 14）cryptic sentences：“Function in disaster. Finish in style.” The rest of those dusty， gilded pages were blank.

Function in disaster. Finish in style. I Googled those words and learned that they were not originally hers—it was a quote from a famous American schoolteacher. Why had my grandmother written it？

Maybe it was just something she 15）jotted down， some 16）aphorism she heard， liked and wished to remember. Still， preceding the hundreds of empty pages of her journal， it was impossible not to read those two short， imperative sentences as an 17）epigraph， or else a concluding moral， to the blanked story of her life.

Function in disaster. Finish in style. I imagined my grandmother in the chaotic midst of her adult life， with four young daughters and a husband in a mental asylum， barely managing， and yet never relinquishing the coolly radiant elegance that is so plainly visible in any photograph of her.

Function in disaster. Finish in style. The spirit of that sentiment attached to the few facts I knew about her history， and more images and words came—I knew they were more the imagined stuff of my own hopes and worries than actual history， but they felt indelible. I wrote them down.

Function in disaster. Finish in Style： it might only have been a simple quotation， words that were not even her own， but it became the Rosetta Stone by which I translated her silence into my imagination. Soon I had filled three hundred blank pages， a book I titled The Storm at the Door.

The Rosetta Stone was found by accident， my grandmother once told me. It had been there all along， but no one had seen it for what it was. A feather of wonderment brushed my 12-yearold spine as I sat to read.

I dont know if my grandmother meant to leave those sentences for me to discover， just as I cant ever know the full story of the disasters in which she managed to function. But I cant imagine a better final gift， nor can I think of how she could have given it to me with any more wondrous style.

我12岁那年，母亲终于说服祖母买了一张来德克萨斯州的单程票。那是1994年，我的祖母——一位长着湛蓝眼睛、高颧骨的美人——当时已经彻底进入阿尔茨海默症中期阶段。上一次我们全家见到她已是数月前的事了，我们当时并不知道接下来将会发生什么事。“你还是用原来那个格子行李箱吗？”在机场时，母亲这样问祖母。我们则盯着行李传送带看。“噢，”祖母说道，“我什么都忘记带了！我想我们得去买东西了。”为了隐藏我们的忧伤，父母和我又回到嗡嗡作响的行李输送带那儿，不一会儿那熟悉的格子行李箱就滑出来了。

大约一个星期后，我们都去了一趟达拉斯艺术博物馆。在博物馆的礼品店，祖母给我买了一本关于罗塞达石的儿童读物。让我特别失望的是，在书的封面上，我看到的罗塞达石并非我所想象的拳头那般大小的宝石；它只是一块刻着一连串古老字迹的又破又厚的花岗石。祖母告诉我，可能它看起来不太像，但它却是开启古埃及神秘大门的钥匙。我从那本书中读到，罗塞达石是直到几百年前才被发现的，它上面的铭文也不过是奄奄一息的埃及帝国里某个小法老的自我吹捧之词。然而，那块石头却用三种不同的语言呈现了相同的讯息，对其所作出的深入研究使得埃及人的牲畜交易记录清晰地呈现在我们面前，也为我们揭秘石块上所有伟大文字中的秘密和一个消失已久国度的历史点滴。几天后，我们回赠给祖母一个皮革封面镀金边的日记本。我和父母鼓励她记录下自己的想法和记忆。我们试图鼓励她，试图保持怀有希望的心理，但是在那年9月9号的凌晨两点一刻，我们永远地失去了她的想法和记忆。祖母在穿过我阿姨漆黑的房间时滑倒，跌下地下室的黑色楼梯而去世了。

多年以后，我长大了，年纪也渐长。但我还是好奇，是不是以某种方式，我便能逆生长，回到我家的往昔岁月。当我20岁时——在和连续五天令人崩溃的失眠较量之后——一位医生给了我这样的诊断：躁郁症，而几年前另一位医生，在我的祖父英年离奇去世前，也曾对他做出同样的诊断。然后，正如我母亲曾为祖母记忆的丢失感到着急一样，我的状况使得母亲有了同样焦虑的担忧。以这些或是许多其他的方式，我自己的未来仿佛与祖母深沉且无声的往事联系在一起，当我们失去祖母的时候，我们也失去了所有关于她的故事。

25岁那年的一个夏日，我在家中翻箱倒柜，想找些东西来读。我搜寻出了管家装箱存放在壁橱里的一堆旧书，我注意到其中一本有着熟悉的书脊，于是我慢慢地拿起它。在我手里的就是13年前那个我们送给祖母的日记本。

我屏住呼吸，打开日记本封面，期待见证奇迹——她的人生故事？是她想让我知道的一切事情的完整记录吗？在扉页上，祖母写了两句神秘的句子：“在逆境中奋起，优雅地走到终点。”除此之外，满是灰尘的金边页面上空空如也。

在逆境中奋起，优雅地走到终点。我在谷歌上查找这两句话，然后发现它们并非我祖母原创，而是引用一位著名美国教师的话。我祖母为什么写下这句话呢？

也许祖母只是草草记下一些她所听到的、喜欢的并希望铭记的警句。当然，她把这两个简短祈使句写在日记本的上百张空白页之前，这不得不使人觉得这便是她的墓志铭，或者是她从其人生的空白故事中总结出来的道理。

在逆境中奋起，优雅地走向终点。我想象祖母身处混乱的成年生活中，带着四个年幼的女儿，而丈夫则在精神病院，勉强维持生计，然而从来不丢弃自己散发光芒的沉着优雅气质，这种气质在她的每张照片中都明显可见。

在逆境中奋起，优雅地走向终点。这种情操所体现的精神正好和我所知的关于她的几件事有所联系，更多的画面和语言涌进脑海——我深知这更多的是我出于期望和担忧而想象的事物，而非真实的历史，但是它们都显得如此真实、不可磨灭。于是我将它们写了下来。

在逆境中奋起，优雅地走向终点：这可能只是一句简单的引语，并非出自祖母之口，但是它成为了罗塞达石，而凭借此我用自己的想象力来理解她的缄默。很快地，我写了三百页，这本书名为《暴风雨在门口》。

罗塞达石是被意外发现的，祖母曾这么跟我说。它自始至终都在那里，但是无人发觉其价值。12岁那年，当我坐下来阅读这本书时，那惊异的感觉似羽毛一样掠过我的脊梁骨，震撼了我。

我无法知道祖母是否是为了让我发现而写下那些句子的，正如我永远无法得知她曾成功地克服过怎样的难关。但是我想象不到还会有更好的最后礼物，也想不到有什么更让人惊叹的方式来让她把这个礼物传给我。