It was the year 2001, back in my homeland Puerto La Cruz, Venezuela.
Grandma, or 'Yaya' as we, her grandchildren, called her, had taken custody of me and my brother due to issues with our single mom.
Her apartment, just a few miles from the sea, became our sanctuary.
Every day, before leaving for school, after coming back home, and right before bed, I'd hug grandma and say, "Bendición, Yaya."
Her smile and reply, "Dios te bendiga," conveyed her love and the blessings I sought by saying "Bendición," in accordance with our cherished Venezuelan tradition.
This heartfelt routine defined our days.
Grandma was not only a wise and loving angel in my eyes, but also an incredible baker.
One afternoon, while bread was baking in the oven, we stepped outside to stand by the apartment door.
Embracing each other, we gazed at the mesmerizing view of the sea and its surrounding islands beyond the houses.
It became our ritual, a moment of peace and connection where Grandma shared stories and I poured out my heart.
Lost in the beauty, we stayed until the mouthwatering aroma of freshly baked bread filled the air, a heavenly treat for our dinner.
I felt so loved and safe living with her.
But life took an unexpected turn.
Grandma's belly started to grow larger, and she joked it was from my brother's burgers.
Deep down, we all had a nagging feeling that something was wrong.
After doctor visits, my aunt called with the tests results: "Grandma has been diagnosed with Endometrial Cancer."
My heart sank, and a wave of emotions crashed over me. The news hit me like a ton of bricks, and my mind raced with a mix of fear, worry, and sadness.
Our family rallied to prepare Grandma for surgery, hoping to remove the tumor.
The day of the surgery came, and I was full of hope.
I said to myself: "It's ok! the tumor will be removed, and we'll focus on her recovery. Everything will go back to normal", desperately clinging to the belief that this nightmare would soon come to an end.
Devastating post-surgery news arrived - the cancer had spread, requiring chemotherapy.
Tears welled up in my eyes and I felt a crushing weight descend upon my chest- my hopeful thoughts shattered into a thousand pieces.
On chemo day, I went with my aunt to the hospital for Grandma's first session. She took Grandma in, and in an instant, wheeled her out.
Concerned, I asked, "What happened? Did they reschedule?" Her sorrowful expression told me otherwise. "We can talk at home," she replied.
The drive back home was excruciatingly silent.
Returning home, we gathered in the living room, joining my brother and cousins, after settling Grandma in her bedroom.
And then, with a heavy sigh, filled with grief and despair, my aunt began speaking:
"It was too late," she said, her words weighing heavily upon us. "The doctor said her condition had worsened, rendering chemo ineffective. He sent her home, advising us to shower her with love, fulfill her every desire, and bid our farewells."
The room fell silent, broken only by stifled sobs and the weight of our collective sorrow.
How could I bear to say goodbye? She was the woman who had raised me with unconditional love and care, who had been my rock and source of strength throughout my life. How could I possibly let her go?
The impossibility of it all crashed over me like a tidal wave, overwhelming my senses.
A few days later, around three months after her diagnosis, my Yaya passed away.
It was the darkest and most devastating day of my entire existence.
It felt as if I had been struck by a merciless blow, leaving me gasping for air, struggling to process the reality of her absence.
In the aftermath of her departure, I found myself trapped in a state of denial, unwilling to accept the harsh reality.
Until one afternoon when, upon returning home from running errands, a familiar routine kicked in.
Instinctively, I made my way to my grandmother's room, intending to seek her "Bendición" as I always had.
I turned the doorknob and pushed open her bedroom door, only to be met with the sight of her empty bed.
The lingering scent of her perfume filled the air, a bittersweet reminder of her presence.
Standing there, still clutching my purse on my shoulder, my gaze shifted to her nightstand, where a wooden box contained her ashes.
It was a stark reminder that my beloved Yaya was truly gone, and the finality of it all washed over me.
"Grandma is gone, and she's never coming back," I whispered to myself, finally embracing the undeniable truth.
Tears flowed freely as I let go of the remnants of denial, allowing myself to confront the rawness of my grief.
Every suppressed emotion broke free, pouring out uncontrollably.
The next morning, depressed and overwhelmed, I felt purposeless.
I briefly considered ending the pain but chose against it.
Instead, with a sense of urgency, I headed to the nearby beach.
Arriving alone at the beach, I settled on the warm sand, immersing myself in the beautiful sound of crashing waves.
With each breath, I took in the salty sea air, feeling the gentle touch of the waves as they embraced my bare feet on the shore.
I looked out at the vast sea, seeking solace.
Surprisingly, it wasn't my pain that occupied my thoughts, but a deep sense of peace and tranquility.
It was as if the sea itself carried my sorrows away, replacing them with peace, strength, and immense gratitude.
I then felt truly blessed to have spent so many years with my beloved grandmother, who shaped the person I am today.
In that moment, I realized how life resembles the tides of the sea.
It takes us through the ups and downs of loss and healing, leading us through challenging times and moments of growth, mirroring the majestic rise and fall of the sea's currents.
I learned that in embracing these rhythms, we discover our own resilience and find solace in the journey.
Years later, inspired by this transformative experience, I decided to create my abstract art collection named "Tides".
