Running my finger over the pearly design, I marvel at my jewelry box’s elegant nacre etching, an intricate flower resting atop a bed of leaves, dancing with an iridescent shine when it catches the sunlight. I open each small drawer, stacked like a three-tiered cake, by pulling on a small round knob in the middle, revealing a red, velvet-lined compartment. Both sides of each button-like knob hold a nacre design of a five-petaled flower embedded in the wood. A rounded curve at the center of the entire box adds a polished undertone, and both textures, wood and nacre, feel smooth and cool to my touch. With an overwhelming sense of remorse, I set it down, and my mind revisits the beginning of the past summer when my grandmother came to stay with our family for a few months. 

She, like any traditional Chinese family, arrived bearing several gifts: an assortment of colorful silk scarves, Chinese herbal teas, exquisite jewelry, and two smooth, dark wood stain colored jewelry boxes. Noticing that my eyes kept wandering back to the delicate jewelry box with the flowery design, a sharp contrast from my first grade Hello Kitty box that I had grown out of years ago, my grandmother beamed. Admiring its style, I gushed to my grandmother, “太漂亮.” It’s too beautiful. She joyfully explained that she hoped it would always serve as a reminder of her, as our family rarely reunited with relatives. Back home in China, all she could think about were her granddaughters. After my grandmother finished presenting the gifts and the conversation dwindled, I dutifully picked up my new jewelry box, carried it into my room, and set it on the middle of my nightstand. Next to my black guitar case, plastic alarm clock, and pile of books, the jewelry box sat proudly, gleaming in all its pristine glory.

As the summer continued, my polite manner toward my grandmother began to dissolve. I became busier with basketball practice in the morning and programming in the afternoon, so I convinced myself that I had less time to spend with her. I had quit Chinese class years before, and unwilling to make an effort to overcome the language barrier, I communicated with her less and less. At night when I studied, my grandmother would come to my room and sit quietly in the corner just to be closer to me, but I shunned her away each time. During the few hours between basketball and programming when only she and I occupied the house, she sat in the living room, under the pretense that I was studying hard, waiting for a chance to connect with me or play guitar and sing to me. However, I was only watching TV shows in my room, reluctant to communicate with her. Every time my conscience flickered with guilt, I smothered the flame by giving myself the flimsy excuse that there would always be another day when I could make the effort. But that day never came. Although only a wall separated us, we were constantly worlds apart. In one futile attempt to interact with a stone wall, she brushed my arm gently with rough, weathered fingers while I studied for an upcoming programming test. I stared at her expectantly. Hesitantly, she smiled and held out her phone with a game that she had loaded, explaining that she remembered when I happily played it years ago, and she wanted me to help her beat a level. I knew that she was not concerned about the game at all; it was simply a hopeful way to share a moment with me during my “busy” schedule. I told her I didn’t have time. The jewelry box on my nightstand began collecting dust. 

She flew back to China soon after. I realized that I missed her quiet presence in the corner of my room and her wide smile after I returned from basketball practice – one that I never returned. Studying and exercising were no excuse to shut her out of my life when all she wanted was to spend precious time with her granddaughters. Afterall, she only saw us once every few years. Did I not have thirty minutes or an hour to spare? Countless scenarios of possible ways for us to have bonded played out in my head, yet none of them had actually come to fruition due to my own lack of effort. If only I had accepted the phone and played that game with her. My cheeks flushed hotly as I registered that I prioritized mundane tasks over connecting with my grandmother, whose sole intention for flying across the world and living in a foreign land was to create memories with me. Despite my cold treatment toward her, she never failed to greet me with a smile and has always loved me unconditionally. 

Blinking back guilty tears, I surrender to the shame that washes over me and gaze at the beautiful box resting on my nightstand between my alarm clock and guitar. I pick it up gingerly and carefully wipe off the dust, restoring the small box to its former splendor. The jewelry box is a constant reminder that I must always make an effort to spend time with a loved one no matter the barriers. Although the delicate designs on the exterior drew me in at first, what it holds inside is truly priceless. Not the gold necklaces or silver bracelets, but my grandmother’s eternal love. 

Taking a deep breath, I grab my phone off my bed and type out the beginning of a long message: Hi Grandmother, I want to apologize…