Losing Her, Finding Strength: A Tribute to My Grandmother

By: Frank Marchese | Becoming Ezra Shmuel

When my cousin first called to tell me that my grandmother’s time was nearing an end, my heart sank. I thought I had prepared myself for this moment, but no amount of time could soften the blow of hearing those words. She was the woman who raised me with love, warmth, and resilience — and yet, for almost nine years, our relationship had been fractured.

Walking into that hospital room, I froze. The woman lying there didn’t look like the grandmother I remembered. Time, illness, and distance had changed her appearance, but not her spirit. When our eyes met, everything else faded away — the years apart, the words unspoken, the pain caused by others. It was like no time had passed at all. She smiled weakly, and in that moment, we simply picked up where we left off.

We talked quietly, holding hands. She told me she was proud of me, and I told her how much I loved her — words I’d waited nearly a decade to say to her face. Deep down, I truly believe she waited for me. She needed to see me one last time before she could let go, to have that peace in her heart before closing her eyes for the final time.

The wedge between us had been years in the making. My uncle — her son — had a hand in that division. My being gay was the spark that ignited the fire between our family. He couldn’t accept who I was, and over time, his influence created distance between me and my grandparents. That pain ran deep. I spent years questioning if I had done something wrong, if simply being myself was too much to bear for the people who once called me their pride and joy.

Accepting what had happened wasn’t easy. Watching her fade away felt like losing her twice — once to the family conflict, and again to time. But I knew I had to be there for her final goodbye.

At the funeral, I saw faces I hadn’t seen in years. There were awkward smiles, forced hugs, and unspoken tension hanging in the air. When my uncle stood up to give the eulogy, I braced myself. Hearing him say my name felt strange — almost hollow. Then came the stories, the half-truths, and the moments painted in ways that didn’t match reality.

There were times I wanted to stand up, to tell the truth about what really happened. About how he treated our grandparents, how he kept certain relationships at a distance, how his pride and control shaped years of silence. But I didn’t. I sat there quietly, holding it together, because I knew this wasn’t the time to reopen old wounds.

Instead, I reminded myself of what my grandmother taught me: that peace doesn’t come from proving others wrong — it comes from knowing your own truth.

As I stood by her urn, I whispered that truth to her. I told her how much I missed her. How I hoped she and Aunt Charlene were together again. How I prayed for them both every night. And how I believed — no, knew — she was proud of the man I’ve become, of the life I’ve built, and of the faith that has shaped me into who I am today.

That day, I walked away with tears in my eyes but strength in my heart. I may not have had the chance to fix everything in life, but I found closure in the love we shared in her final moments.

At the end of the day, I know what’s right and what’s wrong. I know the truth that lives in my heart. And because of that, I can put my head on the pillow tonight — at peace.