When I was six, I\u2019d walk my grandmother to her room. She always held my hand and complimented me\u2014but later I realized she was memorizing me: every freckle, every smile, even how I dragged my feet.<\/p>\n
She\u2019d say, \u201cThere\u2019s gold behind your eyes.\u201d I thought it was just a grandma thing.<\/p>\n
By ten, she began forgetting small things\u2014her purse, names, whether she fed the cat. Then she put the kettle in the freezer and asked if I was her sister. That\u2019s when she was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer\u2019s. She moved in with us, and I gave up my room to sleep on a mattress in my brother\u2019s.<\/p>\n
I read to her often; she\u2019d listen, eyes closed. One evening she squeezed my hand and whispered, \u201cDon\u2019t let them throw it away.\u201d When I asked later, she didn\u2019t remember.<\/p>\n
By sixteen, she barely spoke, but I still read to her. When she died, the house felt cold without her.<\/p>\n
While clearing her room, we found a tiny notebook labeled \u201cFor Zaina, when she\u2019s ready\u201d\u2014filled with little letters she\u2019d written to me over the years. They were full of love, wisdom, and reassurance. The last pages hinted at \u201csomething in the old mirror upstairs\u2026 something I couldn\u2019t throw away.\u201d<\/p>\n
Behind that mirror was an envelope with my name and a key, and a note: \u201cIt\u2019s in the garden, beneath the one rosebush that never dies.\u201d I dug there and found a tin box with an old photo of my grandfather, a letter, and a velvet pouch with a locket dated 1974.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"