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。……