Growing up, Gran.

In the heart's deepest chamber, a void echoes, for I have lost my beloved grandmother, Ann "Gran" Thomas. She was more than a grandmother to me; she was the mother I never had, a guiding light that shimmered through the darkest nights. She wove quilts upon quilts, stitching together warmth and love for every occasion. In a world that can be cold and unforgiving, her quilts were a soothing balm, a tangible expression of her boundless affection.

But it wasn't just about the quilts. When I found myself a single teenage mother, overwhelmed and uncertain, Gran fashioned a quilt for my son, wrapping him in the embrace of her unwavering support. And when the powers of the law forcefully intervened, attempting to separate me from my precious child, she stood firmly between us, shielding him from the clutches of a system that often fails to understand the complex tapestry of human connection.

We lived under one roof, encircled by her love, for five fleeting years. It was a sanctuary—a haven where our souls found solace in each other's presence. But within the folds of this cherished relationship, there lay a parallel tale from my childhood. A story unveiled in whispers and secrets, of how Gran and my father joined forces, quietly summoning the authorities to protect my brother and me from the shackles of an abusive home. Yet, in that bewildering web of circumstances, I was forced to conceal the truth, and the bond between my grandmother and me was forcibly severed for over three long, agonizing years.

Now, as I navigate the treacherous terrain of grief, memories turn into restless nightmares, haunting my every waking moment. The weight of loss sits heavy upon my chest, tears flowing like a river seeking solace in the embrace of the sea. And yet, amidst this tempest of emotions, a glimmer of acceptance emerges—a flicker of light inviting me to journey through the five stages of grief.

Denial, that initial defense mechanism, wraps its cloak around me, whispering that Gran's departure is but a temporary illusion. Anger, like a tempestuous storm raging within, lashes out at a world that dares to carry on without her. Bargaining, an attempt to retrace steps and rewrite a narrative where she still lingers, dances its delicate ballet.

But in the chaos of these stages, there is a resolute determination, an unyielding hand guiding me toward a pathway of healing. Depression, a bittersweet chrysalis, cocoons me in the depths of sorrow, forcing me to confront the depths of my pain. And finally, acceptance, a silent embrace, tenderly wraps around me, whispering that though my Gran may have taken a piece of me with her, her spirit lives on within the tapestry of my soul.

Just as our quilts were stitched together with love, so too is our journey through grief. Each stage, a thread intricately woven, defines our path toward acceptance. In this tapestry of sorrow and healing, we discover the resilience of the human spirit, the strength to carry on even when our hearts feel frayed.

And so, as I navigate this arduous pilgrimage, I find solace in the acceptance that death brings a profound transformation, not just an end. Gran's departure may have dimmed the light of her physical presence, but her spirit dances through the annals of time, forever etched upon the pages of my history.

As Women's History Month unfurls its vibrant tapestry, I honor the woman who made my history great—the woman who loved fiercely, fought courageously, and stitched together the very fabric of my being. Though tears may still stain my cheeks, I embrace the strength and resilience passed down through generations, knowing that Gran's legacy endures within my heart.

So, let us hold a space in our collective hearts for the grief we carry, knowing that within the journey lies the power to heal, to honor, and to pay homage to those who have shaped our lives. For in their absence, we discover the profound truths that make us who we are: the strength of love, the beauty of connection, and the enduring spirit that binds us all.