She was a strong woman. My grandma. The head of the family. Independent. Hardworking. Always there for us. And then one day, she was gone. I didn't think it was her time yet, but no one could help it. God's will, I suppose? So I cried. And I cried some more. And then I blocked it out. Because thinking about her just hurts too much.
I dread going back to my village and entering her room, realizing how changed it is, and how her presence is no longer there. The things she touched, the meals she cooked, the coffee she used to drink before lunch, the radio station she listened to...
I left my home when I was 22. She stayed where her home was. On the walls and the cabinets she kept the photos I would send her: of my graduation, of her first grandchild, of our last Christmas in Denver before we moved. I kept in touch because I loved her so much.
With her gone a part of my village is gone, too. What she gave me, what she taught me will stay with me forever: the strength and courage to fix a broken heart.