Grief Came to Remind Me
Jul 01, 2026 06:00AM ● By Toyia Denise
Grief does not announce itself. I could be having the best day of my life, standing in line at the grocery store—and then, no warning, BAM. It hits me.
Grief carries pain, love, longing and restoration. It gives as much as it takes. Sometimes it brings me to my knees. Other times, it brings flashes of joy—a glimpse of how much love I can actually hold. The moment that remains so clear to me is the last day I saw the love in my grandma’s eyes.
It was one of those hazy August days that flirt with fall air. Eighty-three degrees, warm with a touch of cool breeze. The sky was a deep blue, clouds soft as feathers. I was dressed for a plane ride home after a long summer visit. Casual, ready to move, with a car waiting to take me to the airport.
She was standing at the front door behind the screen, wearing her yellow housecoat. The same one I had seen her in a hundred times. Only now it hung a couple of sizes too big. She was smiling at me, a face full of tears, watching me go. I don’t know how. But I knew the weight of that moment. She was thin. Very thin.
Pancreatic cancer had brought her into the fight of her life, and I could see what it was costing her. I knew she probably would not survive it, though I prayed she would. I wanted to hold on so badly. I wanted time to stop, but time is unforgiving. It keeps moving, even when your heart is begging it not to.
Three months later, I got the call. She was gone.
Sometimes grief arrives as a memory. The beautiful, sweet moment of her holding me while I fell asleep in her lap. The smell of her peach cobbler. The feel of her hands running through my hair before she begins to style it. The sound of her voice, humming. The sight of her hands kneading dough.
Maybe grief is love, still moving, still searching, still trying to find somewhere familiar to go.
On a recent trip with my daughter, I was sitting in the back seat listening to a conversation she and her fiancé were having. He was speaking life into her, encouraging her in the way she needed. Then I heard the words, “Semayah, you just have to be patient.” It was the cadence. The rhythm of the words. The way they landed. It reminded me of my grandma. Of all the times she would say to me, “Baby, you just gotta be patient.”
Near the end of the song, I looked up and saw my daughter’s face full of tears, too. She looked at me and said, “Mom, you can never leave me.” And I knew that feeling. It was the same feeling I had as I looked back at my grandmother that day long ago, seeing her standing behind the screen door in her yellow housecoat, smiling at me. That same ache. That same reaching. That same prayer for time to stop.
But this time, something in me smiled.
No matter what my daughter said or did, I would never leave her. This thing called life is not big enough to separate me from her. Sometimes you are connected to someone beyond the physical. Beyond location. Beyond what the body alone can hold. That is how I am connected to my grandma. My grandma never left me. Not really. Not in the way love counts leaving. Just like I would never leave my daughter.
Love stays in the sayings, in the songs, in the hands that remember how they were once held. In the voice that rises inside us when we need guidance. In the wisdom we repeat before we even realize it was first spoken over us.
That day in the car, grief did not come to destroy me; it came to remind me. And when I looked up at the sky, it was the same blue. The clouds were soft like feathers. I looked up and said, simply, “Thank you.” ❧
Toyia Denise is an Atlanta-based writer, spiritual teacher and executive coach who guides leaders through the patterns and imprints that shape how they lead, live and love. Learn more at ToyiaDenise.com.
Grief carries pain, love, longing and restoration. It gives as much as it takes. Sometimes it brings me to my knees. Other times, it brings flashes of joy—a glimpse of how much love I can actually hold. The moment that remains so clear to me is the last day I saw the love in my grandma’s eyes.
It was one of those hazy August days that flirt with fall air. Eighty-three degrees, warm with a touch of cool breeze. The sky was a deep blue, clouds soft as feathers. I was dressed for a plane ride home after a long summer visit. Casual, ready to move, with a car waiting to take me to the airport.
She was standing at the front door behind the screen, wearing her yellow housecoat. The same one I had seen her in a hundred times. Only now it hung a couple of sizes too big. She was smiling at me, a face full of tears, watching me go. I don’t know how. But I knew the weight of that moment. She was thin. Very thin.
Pancreatic cancer had brought her into the fight of her life, and I could see what it was costing her. I knew she probably would not survive it, though I prayed she would. I wanted to hold on so badly. I wanted time to stop, but time is unforgiving. It keeps moving, even when your heart is begging it not to.
Three months later, I got the call. She was gone.
Sometimes grief arrives as a memory. The beautiful, sweet moment of her holding me while I fell asleep in her lap. The smell of her peach cobbler. The feel of her hands running through my hair before she begins to style it. The sound of her voice, humming. The sight of her hands kneading dough.
Maybe grief is love, still moving, still searching, still trying to find somewhere familiar to go.
On a recent trip with my daughter, I was sitting in the back seat listening to a conversation she and her fiancé were having. He was speaking life into her, encouraging her in the way she needed. Then I heard the words, “Semayah, you just have to be patient.” It was the cadence. The rhythm of the words. The way they landed. It reminded me of my grandma. Of all the times she would say to me, “Baby, you just gotta be patient.”
And suddenly, I needed to feel her. I asked them to play Dianne Reeves’ song, “Better Days.” As the song played, the tears came. But they were not only tears of sadness. They were tears of joy too.
I remember all the sweet sayings she gave me. All the wisdom wrapped in that soft, matter-of-fact, Southern woman’s way. The kind of wisdom that did not announce itself as wisdom. It just lived in her voice.Near the end of the song, I looked up and saw my daughter’s face full of tears, too. She looked at me and said, “Mom, you can never leave me.” And I knew that feeling. It was the same feeling I had as I looked back at my grandmother that day long ago, seeing her standing behind the screen door in her yellow housecoat, smiling at me. That same ache. That same reaching. That same prayer for time to stop.
But this time, something in me smiled.
No matter what my daughter said or did, I would never leave her. This thing called life is not big enough to separate me from her. Sometimes you are connected to someone beyond the physical. Beyond location. Beyond what the body alone can hold. That is how I am connected to my grandma. My grandma never left me. Not really. Not in the way love counts leaving. Just like I would never leave my daughter.
Love stays in the sayings, in the songs, in the hands that remember how they were once held. In the voice that rises inside us when we need guidance. In the wisdom we repeat before we even realize it was first spoken over us.
That day in the car, grief did not come to destroy me; it came to remind me. And when I looked up at the sky, it was the same blue. The clouds were soft like feathers. I looked up and said, simply, “Thank you.” ❧
