It was a grand, but solemn occasion.
People came from all parts of the town donning their mourning clothes, an outward expression of their inner grief. The bell in the little church on the hill tolled over the valley, a signal to all that the matriarch of this community had passed into the afterlife.
Grace had been a constant figure in the life of so many, over a prolonged period of time. She embraced everyone, being a source of strength and comfort to many. Her determination and ferocity through the dark days kept her community strong.
The door to her humble home was always open, a warm and inviting place that was at the heart of the town. Over the years, many had sought refuge from their tumultuous lives, a hot meal and a sympathetic ear was a constant. Her community was plagued with violence and disadvantage, seemingly forgotten by the rest of the world. Despite her own humble and austere existence, what little she had she shared with others.
The crowd was large, cascading outside of the church, indicative of the impact this woman had on the lives of so many. I was taken aback at the outpouring of sadness.
I spoke to many people after the service and they all had a connection, a small part in the tapestry of this extraordinary woman’s life. I knew though, that this was not just Grace’s story. Hers was the story of many strong, courageous and resilient women who had gone before her. Stories that deserve to be told and celebrated.
If grief indeed, is the price that we pay for love, she was loved more than she ever really knew.
© T. Zerafa 2023
Roads less travelled 
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