A year is almost coming to a close, a whole year without you!
You held on for so long, living each day with nothing but sheer faith in our Gods. I say “our Gods” now because it was your unwavering belief that gently nudged mine into existence. Watching you trust with such conviction made it impossible not to believe alongside you.
You almost made it to 99, what a life that must’ve been. And now I sit wondering why I didn’t ask as many questions about your life as you did mine. Rest assured, your stories would’ve blown my socks off. I can only imagine the things you saw, the wisdom you carried and the courage it must’ve taken to live each chapter of your life with such humility and strength.
Growing up, I barely knew you until situations improved. For a time, you were just a figment of my imagination, almost mythical in my mind. I remember my first memory of you so clearly, you wouldn’t let me go to the beach at noon. I was furious. But you stood firm, unfazed by my tantrums. No beach at midday and that was final. That day, as I was leaving, you gave me one of my most prized possessions — a ginormous sea shell shaped like a conch. You knew how much I loved the ocean and you gave me a way to keep it with me. Even then, you understood me more than I understood you.
You had seven beautiful children. And look at them now — independent, successful, happy. That kind of legacy doesn’t happen by accident. Now that I’m a mother myself, I’ve begun to understand the weight of what you carried and my respect for you only grows.
You never preached what it meant to be an independent woman, you simply lived it. You were self-reliant in every sense. Until your final year, you handled life on your own terms. At 97, you were full of energy, laughter and that quick wit you were known so well for. That’s how I will remember you: vibrant, unshakable and entirely yourself.
And Amma, you knew how to care for yourself. It’s one of my fondest memories, watching you oil your hair and skin, pluck those pesky chin hairs, comb your hair into a neat bun and then sit with your tea. You were a master of self-care before it ever became trendy. What pride you took in yourself, it was beautiful to witness. You taught us that taking care of ourselves isn’t selfish; it’s sacred.
I never got to meet my Grandpa but the stories paint him as a kind and remarkable man. You lost him too soon, yet you spent nearly four decades living on in that ancestral home without him. That takes a kind of inner power most of us can only dream of. You were a quiet storm — resilient, grounded and fiercely graceful.
Your home was a sanctuary. You welcomed everyone with that unforgettable smile, the one that made your eyes sparkle. You filled our bellies but more than that, you nourished our tired spirits. And when it was time to leave, you always asked, “When will I see you next?” That question rings in my ears now as I lock your door behind me. Your door. Your home. The doors to your world. What a strange and heavy feeling — to see your home closed, to feel it empty.
Your thirst for life was unmatched. You were always curious, always eager to learn and try new things, to want more. Age was just a number to you. You didn’t live by anyone’s rules but your own and it seemed so liberating. I wish I had asked you — how did you pluck up the courage to live so boldly? To be so unapologetically you?
Now, my son carries a piece of you with him too. He still looks up at the sky and talks to you. He shares his tall tales, collects stones and sets them out just for you. I wish you could’ve seen him grow up, he would’ve taken up all your love and energy and you would’ve loved him all the more for it. And I know he would have soaked up your love like sunlight. He misses you in his own innocent, beautiful way.
Amma, you built an empire. Not of brick and gold, but of love and strength. You stitched each of our lives together with invisible threads of love, resilience and legacy. I am because of you. We all are. And for that, I’ll be forever grateful.
I love you, Amma. We all do, today, tomorrow and always.
Your Loving Granddaughter,
Novembrella 