When my grandfather died,my 83-year-old grandmother, once full of life, slowly began to fade. Although she was visited often by our loving family members, it was often hard to arouse her interest.

One chilly December afternoon, my sister Meagan, eight, and I were settling in for a long visit with my grandmother, when she noticed that Meagan was carrying her favorite doll.

”I, too, had a special doll when I was a little girl,“ she told wide-eyed Meagan,”I got it one Christmas when I was about your age.The very first gift I opened that Christmas was the most beautiful doll. She had an exquisite,hand-painted porcelain face, and her long brown hair was pulled back with a big pink bow.”Grandma’s eyes filled with excitement and her voice shook with emotion as she recalled that Christmas gift.“I played with my doll all morning long. She was such a beautiful doll... And then it happened. My mother called us to the dining room for Christmas dinner and I laid my doll down, ever so gently, on the hall table. But as I went to join the family at the table,I heard a loud crash.”

“I hardly had to turn round — I knew it was my precious doll. When I ran in from the dining room, there lay my beautiful doll on the floor, her face smashed into a dozen pieces. I can still see mother trying to put my poor doll together again. But it couldn’t be done. She was gone forever.”     A few days later, Grandma’s younger sister was also gone because of pneumonia. Now the tears in her eyes spilled over-tears, I knew, not only for a lost doll and a lost sister, but for the lost time.

During our rest stay, Meagan thought a good idea and exclaimed,“Let’s get our grandma a new doll for Christmas, one exactly like the doll that got broken. She would not cry when she thought about it.”My heart filled with pride as I listened to my compassionate sister. But where would we find a doll to mach our grandmother’s fond memories?

Where there’s a will, there is a way. We got in touch with a local doll maker.

Finally, our creation was finished.

Grandma tried to straighten out her fingers.“You know, Ann, I think I am done knitting.” she said.“My fingers just won’t do what I tell them any more.”

I looked at her hands.When I was little, she had taught me how to sew dresses for my dolls and how to embroider (刺绣) the faces of my dolls on the dresses.

But now she can hardly bend her fingers.The doctor said she should keep her hands warm.I made her cups of tea to hold and moved her chair closer to the fire.But it didn’t work.

I wasn’t used to seeing her hands so still.When I came downstairs, her quiet hands made even her voice stay still.I missed her voice more than ever.

I tried to help her find her voice.“Grandma, tell me about when you were a little girl,” I begged, knowing she loved to tell stories.“Tell me about Peti and Zoe.” Peti and Zoe were her brother and sister.“That was so long ago, Ann,” whispered Grandma.“I can barely remember.” But I still remembered her story about Peti cutting off Zoe’s two beautiful long braids (辫子) and then hiding them in the closet.Were those words still moving silently in her head?

Mom was sorting through our clothes for spring.“Ann, take these out to the trash,” Mom said.“There’s no need to keep worn-out clothes.”

I looked sadly at the pile of sweaters and then picked it up.

“Wait,” Grandma said as I walked by her and put the pile downstairs.“Let me see those.”

“Ann, wind the yarn (纱线) of the old sweater into a ball, like this.Then you can use the yarn to knit something new.” Grandma wrapped yarn around and around her fingers, first in one direction and then the other to keep the ball round.

After dinner Grandma fell asleep in her chair.

Mom came downstairs with an old pair of gloves with small holes to add to the pile of sweaters.

Suddenly, the pair of old gloves gave me an idea.

“Your family,” I said, handing the gloves with the faces of Peti and Zoe to Grandma.

Many years ago, my father, who was 80 at that time, arrived for his regular two-week visit at my home in Karachi. He lived with my elder brother in Lahore most of the time and for ten years had stuck to his habit of going for an hour-long morning walk to keep fit. In Lahore, he would walk around a park that is quite close to my brother’s house. Naturally, he was keen to continue his morning walk while with us in Karachi.

Our preferred park is a 2 km walk from my house and it has a l km walking track. I could not drive him there every day as I had to leave for the office at the same time he wanted to set out. Since there are hardly any footpaths in Karachi, my father said he was delighted to walk on the road as he was certain there wouldn’t be much traffic in the morning.

I was less confident so I suggested it would be safer if he changed his walk time to the evening. That way I could take him to the park after work. However, my father-a determined person-said that he could not change his routine for just a few days and insisted that he would be leaving the house every day at 7 am and returning by 8 am. He started doing this and stuck firmly to his schedule. So one day when he had not returned by 8:30 am, my wife, Qaisa, phoned me in a panic. Worried, I immediately drove home, taking the same route that my father would have taken for his walk.

Not spotting him anywhere, I went to the police station to report my father’s disappearance. The station house officer advised me to wait until midnight before filling the report. Since it was only 10 am, I drove back to the park, in the hope of discovering some trace, but in vain. Totally at a loss for what to do next, I returned home and waited impatiently, walking back and forth in the house.

At 10:35 am the doorbell rang and my father stood outside the door smiling, accompanied by a young man.

After knowing what had happened, I showed my appreciation of his kindness.