Grief is strange. It comes and goes like the tide—sometimes a gentle pull, other times a crashing wave that leaves you gasping for air. I can be working in my office at school, caught up in the rhythm of the day, and then suddenly a wash comes over me. Tears fall before I even realize they’ve arrived. That’s how grief works—it ebbs and flows, unpredictable and consuming.
I think of my uncle often. For more than fifty years, his presence was a gift of laughter, kindness, and steady love. He had a way of lighting up the room with a simple joke, of making people feel seen, cared for, and cherished. He was always moving, always giving, always capturing the small but meaningful moments that stitched our lives together. His legacy is not something left behind—it continues to live in each of us.
Being away from family and friends who also loved him makes this harder. It reminds me of when I lost my Tata, my grandmother, from afar. That same ache of distance returns—of grieving without the comfort of shared tears and shared memories. It also awakens the heartbreak of other loved ones who were taken too soon, unexpectedly leaving holes in the fabric of my life.
Grief never truly disappears. It settles into us, becoming part of who we are. It is like a wrinkle etched into our skin, or a stain on our favorite shirt—always there, a quiet reminder of the love that once flowed so freely. And though it hurts, it is also sacred: proof that love existed, that love endures.
So I try to remember the joy—the laughter, the warmth, the countless moments of light. Those memories soften the edges of grief, carrying me forward while keeping him close.
