Momental Musings:Grandmas hands

They Really Came in Handy

Apr 12, 2025

You know, when you look back on the moments that changed your life forever, they always start with this odd silence. The environment could be loud, there could be no space for you to even think, but for a moment—seconds within seconds—there's no sound—complete silence.

It is as though fate itself pauses, holding its breath, casting dice that determine the path forward. These pivotal moments appear as singular intersections between possible realities. On March 31st, my Uncle called me four times during a morning meeting. I answered the phone and heard the silence so loudly, and then my Grandmother was gone. My consciousness was found in the reality where I lost her sooner than I would have imagined. Then pain, and tears, and a fire so deep in my chest that if the breath I couldn't catch had come the first from my lungs, it would have scorched my surroundings.

I'm sad—the kind of sad that leads to depths of human sorrow I didn't know existed. The sadness that leaves my eyes dry and makes me question whether I've reached the end of the water my eyes can produce. The kind that leaves me sitting still for minutes, not really thinking but just heavy because grief has more physical weight than I knew.

A new friend explained grief to me in the best way I've heard yet: It's like the moment you hold your child for the first time, that level of joy and happiness shows you how much a human can feel joy. Losing someone who's foundational to your very being is the complete opposite, but what it shows you is something similar—the outer reaches of what a heart can feel.

I'm sad—but that's a new normal for a while. This sadness is equal to the love she gave me; I wouldn't want to feel anything else. How could I? She raised me, her hands guided my life. Her hands prayed, they taught me lessons I'll pass on for as long as I live. So I will cry, scream, laugh and sit still for moments at a time because death is stupid, but it's also painfully beautiful.

I. The Woman Behind the Hands

My Nana's name was Vannessa Brown, and she was remarkable. I write this for two reasons: one, because writing, as I've discovered, helps me to process my emotions (and boy, do I have a lot of them), and two, I want nothing more than to preserve a record of my Nana on this massive collection of human knowledge. She deserves a statue but for now this piece, a walk down memories, photos of her loving fierceness will have to do. I'd like for the world to know of the extraordinary, strong, grace-filled woman I got the pleasure to call Nana.

Did you know that the love you found in those DC streets would lead to four children, 23 grandchildren, and 3 great-grandchildren?

Vannessa met Vance, and well, the rest was history. They became parents early but built a community within those DC streets, living within the same apartment complex as her sisters and their husbands.

They eventually moved from those city streets and went their own ways, but always close as if down the hall. She lost one of her sisters at this same time last year, a grief I imagine weakened her heart in more ways than one, my Aunt Sandy. She loved them dearly and fought with them often. Now, Vance and Vannessa did not have a perfect marriage—for who does?—but they chose to fight over and over again to make it work. Their love was one of struggle and perseverance. On the night none of us saw coming, he was by her side. To the very last moment, Vance was by her side. He remains without his partner, but Nana, I promise we will stay by his side for as long as we can.

The Name on Her Hands

Vannesa was not "Grandma," for she thought that made her sound old, so she was properly "Nana." She became a Nana on March 1st, 19951, and for 30 years, she was the world's best. I was a problem child, but even when I was at my worst, she was only ever upset because she knew who I could be and how much I didn't strive for that at the time.

Vannessa was a Nana who would make herself look completely foolish if it meant it would make one of her grandchildren smile. Her hands held them all, and boy, when she got great-grandchildren, she still wanted to be called Nana, although I did try saying "Great-Grandma" a few times—I can still feel the shiver down my spine as she gave me that look. Haha... Man, she was a wonderful Nana.

The Work of Her Hands

Vannessa was a woman of knowledge and hard work. She got roughly 9 years of retirement... now feeling incredibly short. I find this to be extremely frustrating, to be honest, but she was so proud of her Government service. She started working when she was 14.

She taught me the importance of working hard, finding pride where you can, and never allowing your morals to be compromised. She taught me lessons on the importance of leaving a door open for someone else when you get to walk through it. She taught me always to be curious and to befriend people who see the world differently from me. She was a woman who valued knowledge and being well-read. She understood the importance of education. Nana firmly believed that teaching others what you know is never wasted effort—it's how we all rise together.

I will miss her lessons dearly, but even now, she's teaching me things: How to deal with true grief, how to grieve with my partner who lost one of her biggest cheerleaders, how to be a father while my heart is broken, and the herculean amount of patience that it takes. How to walk alongside my children as they deal with loss for the very first time.

The Last Touch of Her Hands

I'm sad, but I'm so glad that the last moment I got to spend with my Nana was over a vegan mint cookies and cream shake. You know how some people dance when the food's good? Well, she danced with her hands, and that shake was excellent, haha... I remember holding her hands as we left the restaurant, smaller than before but equally strong. I'm happy I got to hug her one last time. Had I known it was our last, perhaps I would have lingered longer, held tighter, heard her voice as she told me, "Oh Johnny my big baby... It's going to be okay. Cry, but keep moving."

Her legacy lives on not just in my memories but in who I am and how I love. James Baldwin wrote, "You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read." In sharing my Nana with you, I find comfort in knowing her story joins the tapestry of love and loss that connects us all.

Thank you for engaging with this reflection; your condolences are sincerely appreciated. To those navigating similar grief, my heartfelt empathy—this pain is so damn hard. Yes, it's equal to the love but damn. If you haven't experienced this yet, I hope you enjoy every moment you have with those you love. Don't make excuses, don't expect later. Enjoy every minute of now.