Words | Nida Khan
My Grandmother, the Womb I Could Always Return To
As I enter my forty-third year, I’m thinking about my grandmother, my Ammi. It’s been several months since she passed away in September 2025. I write this with a rock on my chest, pressing into raw grief, reminding me that she’s gone. And so is the safe space she hewed out for me, the emotional shelter of a grandmother’s love.
This love has an uncanny power to hover over us like an impenetrable force, shielding till its last silent syllable floats into eternity. My Ammi’s prayers are gone, and now the world feels harsher—less forgiving, less safe.
The Womb in Childhood
Close up of illustrated hugging figures
Growing up, Ammi was always there. She visited us in every city my father…
