These are the words I use to comfort myself: My grandmother was 94 years old. She survived two wars — one of them Algerian Independence. She raised her children — twelve — as a widow. She gave freely to everyone who stopped at her door, even if it meant she was left with nothing, and she loved with no restraint. She lived a beautiful, honorable, honest life. She knew what it meant to be enslaved and to be liberated. Everything she did was for family, was for legacy. She gave all she had and expected nothing in return. She has seen her children, her grand-children, her great-great grandchildren. She has outlived a generation. She has outlived a generation. She has outlived a generation, what more can you ask for.

These are the words I use to comfort my mother: Look at what she leaves behind. Look at how she raised you. Look at how we carry so much of her in ourselves, her wisdom, her pride, her empathy, her wit. Look at how God has asked for her back. Look how that is a testament to the Godly life she has lived, of what paradise will look for her. Look at how she is at peace, at rest, look how she no longer is suffering, no longer in pain, no longer heartbroken. You carry a deep pain inside, a hole that will be never be filled, but look at how now she is free. Look at how now she can start her eternity.

To be child of diaspora is to also wonder if you can claim this grief — if the guilt of not being there, not speaking the language fluently, not firmly placing your feet on the same land means you too have hold over the same memories, wisdom, words. But I know what cannot be spoken through language is felt in our touches, in our motions, in precious time spent every second possible. I can still feel the kisses of my grandmother on my cheek, can still feel her firm hand on my forearm, can still hear the way she enunciates in her tongue to have courage, to be a leader, to take care of my mother, to be honest, to be smart, and sharp. The way her lips curl when she laughs and how her shoulders shake. How she has always showered me with prayers that become blessings that become my life.

My grandmother has always has been a warrior. She has fought for Algeria to be free, for her lineage to be unchained. She is constantly surrounded by those who wish to seek her wisdom. She is a sage. She can tell you everything that happened, as it has happened. Her memory never left her. She does not hold back. Her eyes close when she tells her stories, and sometimes they are hard stories to listen to. She is not afraid of remembering.

We must not be afraid of remembering.

Living in diaspora meant that I was forced to give many goodbyes. Part of me has been mentally preparing for this day, trying to compile as many memories as I can during every disjointed visit to the motherland so that they can fill the space between us. But now the last goodbye is here, and I am many miles away, and I know that in order for me to accept it, I must be willing to recognize that every moment matters, while also recognizing that every moment is still not enough to fill this space of immense loss. That it is now my turn to shower her in prayers, to blanket her rest.

My grandmother was a powerful woman. Her impeccable memory and wisdom meant she was a force to be reckoned with. She was fierce and strong. She raised a generation on her own and she carried the legacy of my grandfather beautifully. She never let us forget where we came from and from whom we came from and what that means to who we are and what we should give to the world. She never let us forget God. She taught us honor, respect, and charity in what you do will be amongst the most powerful of what you leave behind — because that is what will ultimately outlive your lifespan.

These are the words I use to comfort myself: At home in the bedroom seared into my memory covered in colorful quilts and beige walls, the lace silk curtain blowing in the breeze, I see her. I know that when the sound of the Athan reverberated through the town for Asr that her eyes opened from a week of deep slumber and delirium. That her lips moved and whispered prayers, that her hands familiarly went up and down, that by the end of the call to prayer she took her last breath. I know that the biggest blessing and honor is a dignified and peaceful death.

We must not be afraid of remembering.

Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajioon. To God we belong and to God we will return.