Grief doesn’t always arrive with grand gestures.

Sometimes, it slips in gently—through a memory, a quiet moment, or the realization that someone you’ve known all your life is no longer here.

Last week, we lost one of my lolo’s brothers. He wasn’t a constant presence in my everyday life, but he still held a meaningful place in my heart. I looked up to him in a quiet way. His presence was a steady thread in the fabric of my childhood.

I remember seeing him often when I was younger—at family gatherings, during casual visits—the kinds of moments you don’t always realize are shaping you. In the past few years, especially during his illness, I made it a point to visit when I could. Not out of obligation, but because I wanted to. I wanted to show up, even in small ways, while I still could.

His passing hit harder than I expected—not because we were especially close, but because he was part of a generation I grew up around. A generation that helped raise us, even if just by being present. And with his passing, I felt that familiar ache again—one I first felt in 2021 when we lost his brother, another one of my lolo’s siblings. That loss was heavy too, and I remember thinking back then: They’re really growing old. Time is really moving.

It’s a strange thing, watching the older generation slowly fade. It’s not just their absence that hurts—it’s what they represented. Their stories. Their warmth. Their humor. Their strength. Pieces of our family history that slowly become memory.

During the funeral, I felt my lolo’s heartache. He was trying to be strong for everyone, holding himself together the best he could—but I know he is hurting. Seeing that grief in someone I love deeply made the loss feel even heavier.

I know I’m not at the center of this grief, and I hold deep respect and love for the immediate family who are feeling this loss more acutely. But still, I grieve too—in my own quiet way. I carry memories of them both—of their laughter, their kindness, and how they were simply there, anchoring parts of my life I didn’t realize I’d miss so much.

Grief doesn’t require permission or proximity. It comes because we’ve loved, even gently, even from the sidelines. And that love deserves space.