The first morning at Grandma’s house, she gave me an old, rusty key.
“Go outside and explore,” she said.
I did not want to walk around with an old key, but I wanted to cross Grandma even less. So I put the key in my wallet and went outside.
Grandma’s yard had a concrete path with plants lining either side. I took small steps forward, not wanting to stray into the flowerbeds. I was taking the key out to examine it more closely when I stepped on a loose rock. Falling forward, I bumped my head against an old metal gate and sent the wallet flying beneath it. It landed on soil with a thud. I shook the gate and found it locked. I had stumbled upon the garden my great uncle, who was also blind, had crafted.
I felt along the wall for another way in. I found a tree with thick branches stretching beyond the gate into the garden. But when I stepped onto the lowest branch, it snapped and I tumbled to the ground. I dusted myself off and picked up the broken branch, sweeping it in front of me like the long cane I had forgotten to bring. Trailing the gate, I smelled pungent scents and felt leaves tickling my cheek. My hand found a rope of braided herbs. I followed it — but it led me straight back to the cold, locked gate.
The wind picked up, carrying the rustling of leaves and the jingling of wind chimes. One chime sounded more dull than the others. I reached up and found something attached to it with a string — an old, rusty key, not unlike the one inside my wallet. I untied it, trailed back to the gate, and inserted it into the lock. It would not turn.
I sat on the ground and put my head in my hands. Grandma had told me to explore, but I had nowhere to go.
Then I remembered — the broken branch. I thrust it beneath the gate and heard a small tinkle. Slowly, patiently, I nudged my wallet closer until it landed on the concrete beside me with a ding. I took out Grandma’s key and put it in the lock. This time it turned. The gate swung open.
I walked through and closed it behind me.
Standing with my back to the gate, I took a deep breath. The air was fragrant with mint, lavender, rosemary, basil, and other herbs I could not name. Instead of wind chimes, I heard birds singing above me. The braided rope of herbs was right overhead, and by following it I discovered I could travel the whole garden — smelling the flowers, touching the trees, feeling enveloped by warm air and sweet scents like a welcomed guest. No thorns caught my fingers. No bitter smells warned me away. Everything here invited touch.
I held up Grandma’s key in one hand and grasped the braided herbs with the other. My great uncle had crafted this garden for someone like me. And my grandmother, all along, had known exactly where it was.