I was holding my Nana’s hands when she passed away. I was her only granddaughter. Her namesake. Her beauty shop companion. Her sidekick rose gardener. Her sous chef who loved butter as much as she did. Her New Year’s Eve date. Her engagement ring diamonds are the diamonds in my engagement ring. The gold from her engagement ring forms my wedding band.

It was late on a cold January night, and I was at home putting my life together after many years of living all over the United States. My mom, who was holding vigil that night after I had left the nursing home earlier in the day, asked me to come. I know Nana waited to take her final breath until I was with her, holding her hands. Her room smelled like hand lotion and sadness. Machines hummed like the late-night television snow of my childhood. I remember my hands enfolding her hands and telling her that we loved her and that it was ok for her to pass. I remember my hands enfolding her hands and feeling her warm, soft skin. I remember my hands enfolding her hand and the look in her eyes — first scared, then peaceful. I remember my hands enfolding her hands and watching her chest rise and fall, eventually stopping life’s gentle rhythm.

A final touch is intimate. There is a pace to letting go, a warmth to holding close, and an overwhelming comfort when hearts connect. In this moment, grace breathes and forgives, calms and quiets all the noise, and nothing else matters. All else fades, and our story, truth, and reason for being stand in stark relief. Something sacred opens. I have never been present at birth, but I imagine the otherworldliness and bigger-than-likeness of that experience feel similar. Life arriving. Life leaving. A life inhaling. A life exhaling. The mystery of it all feels miraculous.

Holding Nana’s hands made me think about life and death. As Ram Dass suggests, we are all just walking each other home. It might also be that we are all just holding each other’s hands, too. I think about the gift of impermanence as a reason to live each day to the fullest and celebrate the glorious truths of failure and learning and growth. I think about our energy — being neither created nor destroyed — living on in 1000 ways that are both known and unknown. I think about history and memory and what happens in life’s hyphen, the time between the day we are born and the day we die.